Inked Lines
by eha1234
Summary: Second Year at Hogwarts. Harry decides to write in the Diary instead of leaving it alone. He finds a companion in the mysterious figure that appears there but slowly comes to realise the friendship he has formed is a lie.
1. 1-1 Diary

**AN: I ran out of TomxHarry fanfiction to read, so wrote a generic one so I could keep reading. **

**Well, to be fair there's not much TomxHarry in there. Maybe if you squint hard, nothing explicit.**

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**Part 1: Meeting**

**Diary**

_In the beginning, there was the Diary._

The Diary feels familiar. He takes it to lessons because he cannot afford to get it lost or stolen and the dormitories seem far too accessible, or so he tells himself, but often he finds himself fingering the rough edges inside his bag, trying to pin down the ache of nostalgia in his chest. Hermione has noticed and warns him to be careful; the words wash over him. Ron, too, seems uncomfortable, but says little in comparison.

_He could have left it empty, forgotten for the quiet months that had continued. It may have been better that way – less pain, less loss. He could have saved himself the burden of compassion._

_But he doesn't._

The first time they speak, it is to sate his curiosity.

It is Friday evening that Harry finds himself in bed, curtains closed and wand-light hidden by his covers which is formed in a tent shape above his head as he stares down at the Diary. Harry pauses with the quill poised above an empty page. He is unsure what he wants to get out from talking to Riddle again, because he seems to have given all the information he had with the memory of Hagrid's monster.

_Dear Tom Riddle_

He instantly feels silly, as though writing a formal letter. It is too late to make amendments, however, as the writing quickly fades into the page, replaced by Riddle's careful script.

_Hello, Harry Potter._

Frowning, Harry writes back.

_How did you know it was me?_

_Your handwriting is distinctive._

Harry isn't quite sure what that means but it makes sense. He can always spot Hermione and Ron's work, even among a pile of others, because Ron's has a distinctive roundedness to it and Hermione's flows like a row of leaves.

_Furthermore, I can detect your presence. You have very powerful magic._

Harry flushes.

_I don't. I'm sort of average. Hermione's a really powerful witch – she's the top of every class._

_I don't think you've mentioned Hermione before, _Riddle replies.

_She's my friend. We met in First Year and we saved her from a troll in the girls toilets! _Harry explains. _She's brilliant. We wouldn't be here without her._

_A troll in the girl's toilets? That sounds very strange._

Harry grins at the memory. Ron had been pretty fantastic too, smashing its head with its own club. He recounts the story to Riddle, including his heroic jump onto the trolls back.

_It was Voldemort. Oh, I suppose Voldemort was before your time. He's a really bad wizard. He killed my parents. Last year, he possessed our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and tried to steal the Philosopher's stone which Professor Dumbledore had hidden beneath a trap door in the third floor corridor. We went and stopped him._

Harry shivers as he remembers Voldemort's pale and pasty face, his twisted screams ringing through the air.

_Voldemort was horrible. Barely human. Lucky Dumbledore got back in time._

Riddle doesn't reply for so long that Harry almost suspects he is gone.

_That was very brave of you, _Riddle writes.

_It was luck, really. _Harry writes back. And Ron. And Hermione. Hagrid too, for giving them the clues that they had needed (although the whole mess couldn't have been avoided if he had given less clues, but Harry doesn't blame him because it got Quirrell caught in the end).

_It takes more than luck to set back a powerful Dark Wizard, Harry. While I was at Hogwarts, there was a Dark Wizard called Grindelwald…_

Harry scrawls back eagerly.

_He was on Dumbledore's chocolate frog card!_

Suddenly a flash of s_omething_. It is hot and bitter. The feeling is gone as soon it has come, but it leaves an ashen aftertaste on Harry's tongue and a prickle in his fingers. Riddle does not answer that night. He wonders if conversing drains the Diary's magic or something, because so far Riddle has not spoken more than a few sentences at a time. He sleeps uneasily that night, dreams punctuated by Riddle's shadowed face staring down a younger Hagrid, turning into a screaming white face that bursts into ashes.

The second time they speak, it is to sate his confusion. It is late evening and Harry sits with his pillows up against the headboards, the Diary propped up on his bent knees.

_Who is Dumbledore to you?_

The response is quick and curt.

_He was my transfigurations professor._

There is more. Perhaps it is through the jaggedness of Riddle's usually flowing script that Harry can sense the Diary's mirth. Harry writes down his observation.

Riddle makes a weighty pause and Harry wonders if he does this for dramatic effect.

_You may recall that I lived in a muggle orphanage during my time at Hogwarts. Muggles are very inadept at dealing with things that they do not understand. They were not_

Pause.

_kind._

Playing quidditch, one becomes familiar with the experience of free-fall. But Harry is sitting in bed, not diving on a broom, so does not understand the lightness of his stomach or the tingle all over his scalp.

_Unnatural. Undeserving. Freak._

He understands what Riddle is saying. Harry doesn't think he's ever understood a sentence like this before – more than words. The feeling is beyond terms like pity or compassion or kinship.

Riddle continues.

_Professor Dumbledore came to deliver my Hogwarts letter. He spoke to the matron before meeting me and I'm afraid, he didn't get the best impression of me. He mistrusted me throughout my time at Hogwarts._

Dumbledore hadn't struck Harry as someone mean. Although Harry's interactions with him were few, Hagrid respected him and Malfoy hated him, so Harry doubted he could be a bad person. In fact, the headmaster had been nice to Harry; talking to him about the Mirror of Erised and saving his life when Quirrell tried to kill him. He supposed Riddle must have made a terrible misunderstanding.

_Let me show you another memory, Harry._

Two letters, once more.

_OK._

Riddle is much younger in this memory – he could be the same age as Harry, perhaps a little younger, and he is already just as tall. Even at this age, Riddle's dark eyes are sharp. It suits his angular features and gives him an air of finesse that Harry could never manage. They are in a small room, with a bed and wardrobe, lit by the sunlight coming through a window on the other side of the door. With a book on his lap, Riddle sits.

After a minute, a knock on the door proceeds Dumbledore's arrival. His appearance is much the same as Riddle's previous memory; auburn hair and a shorter beard, although his rather interesting choice of colours remained.

They talk.

Harry wants to distrust Riddle's story. He wants to point out the flaws in his argument, state where he is wrong, but just like when he watched Hagrid hide a monster, he cannot.

From his first words, Dumbledore's suspicion of Riddle is evident. Harry has heard that tone before: from his form teacher when his test score had been better than Dudley's.

"_I can speak to snakes."_

_Everyone knows that's the mark of Dark Wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes?_

Staring at Dumbledore's unchanging expression, Harry wonders what the younger headmaster is thinking. Does he mistrust Riddle's difference? Does he think Riddle is set out to be evil? Harry once admired the joyful façade that Dumbledore could always conjure, giving him all the mystique that a stereotypical wizard should have. Now, it is irritating.

He sets fire to Riddle's wardrobe. Reprimands him for stealing.

Harry has stolen before. Food from the fridge. Dudley's old toys. Marbles on the playground. Necessities. Comforts. Little victories. He wonders what Dumbledore would think of him if he had known and suddenly Harry feels like he can trust no one.

Riddle tears apart everything Harry has known in the wizarding world and Harry lets him.

It is another week before Harry has the strength to open the diary again. The days pass in a haze and the nights staring up at the ceiling with thoughts flying too quick to catch buzzing around him were endless. He is too tired to concentrate, too alert to sleep and it is becoming a destructive cycle. Often, Harry finds himself frustrated at his own reaction – Riddle is a ghost (or a memory stuck in a diary), nothing more, and agonising over his unfortunate past was hardly going to help anyone.

But the third time they talk, it is to sate his compassion.

_I can speak to snakes too._

_Is that so? Parseltongue is a very rare talent._

A small smile twitches at Harry's lips.

_You're flattering yourself you know._

_However, I suggest you keep this between us. Parselmouth has unfavourable connotations._

Painfully, Harry recalls Justin's pasty face.

_Yeah, I know. And it's too late. I spoke to a python in front of the whole school._

It wasn't quite the whole school but Harry felt that exaggeration was appropriate here. Certainly, the whole school had known about it the next day. Even though the brunt of the reaction had faded, there are still whispers following his back and people seemed to think that looking at him too hard would cause them to be petrified. Their stupidity is irritating but their ignorance does not make their coldness any less sharp.

_I understand, Harry._

They are simple words, but they seem much fuller when they come from Riddle.

He writes in the Diary every night after that. On his bedside table, he leaves a pot of his least runny ink and a quill for that purpose alone. Riddle is patient. Riddle listens and returns with his own little anecdotes. Within a few days Harry is writing to Riddle in the morning too when the castle is still quiet and at the start of lessons before the teachers arrive.

He is careful with who he is near when he uses the Diary because he knows someone has already tried to dispose of it once. However Ron and Hermione are the two people he can trust and he is not terrible secretive, at least, about what he keeps in his bag. Observant as ever, Hermione does not fail to notice that his conversations go beyond small talk and she makes it abundantly clear that she disapproves of Harry's obsession with the little black book.

"Harry, you have to show that diary to someone. It's not _safe," _Hermione hisses.

Harry is taken aback by her voice over his shoulder and slams the page shut even as his final words sink into the page. His eyes dart around the common room which had seemed a different plane of existence not moments before – there are a plenty of people doing their homework or socialising after dinner but none seemed to be looking in their direction. Sinking back down into the armchair Harry had settled in, he tucks the Diary back into his bag. With the initial concern fading, a surge of annoyance overtakes him. He glares at Hermione.

"He knows about the Chamber," he says. Practiced words. Repeated words. They have done this conversation enough times.

"What more has he told you since the vision about Hagrid!" Hermione says.

Harry swallows. He hadn't really touched on the topic with Riddle since.

Hermione takes the hesitation as evidence for her argument and pushes on relentlessly.

"You write in that book _all the time. _You can't even concentrate in lessons! Harry, it's obviously a dark artefact and for all you know, T. M. Riddle could have been the heir of…"

"You just _want_ him to be evil!" Harry snarls. The way Hermione takes a small move backwards gives Harry the impression she is taken aback. Taking a deep breath in, Harry looks down to the curled fists on his laps. He feels like he has just pulled out of a sharp dive.

When he looks back up, Hermione is still blinking owlishly at him. For some reason, the innocence of her expression does nothing to alleviate the blood roaring through Harry's brain.

"He grew up without any parents-" _(he was bullied by other kids)_ "-Hogwarts was the best thing that ever happened to him-" (_Hogwarts was his first and only home) " _-he wouldn't ever want it closed down! He speaks to snakes, Hermione, like me. I'm the _Boy-Who-Lived _and everyone thinks I'm a dark wizard now! How do you think _he felt?" _Harry says hotly. "Would you suspect _me _of petrifying students?"

Harry is suddenly aware that he has raised his voice much higher than what could pass as natural. He sinks lower into the armchair, away from the prying gazes that he can feel from behind the high back of the armchair he had used to conceal himself from the rest of the common room. Hermione bends lower and the small scrunch of her nose indicates a lecture.

"Harry, you feel a connection to Riddle because he had similar circumstance to you. You want to help him because you feel like helping him is going to give you power over your own situation…" Harry disagrees with Hermione's observation because this is about _Riddle, _not about Harry, but says nothing, "-but Riddle was alive _fifty years ago_!"

"And?" Harry says. Hermione sighs.

"I just think you should be prioritising the people here today, not a ghost form the past."

There is a distinctive way that Hermione raises the tone of her sentences to indicate firm finality. Harry meets her stony stare impassively.

"Fine," he says.

"What is?" Hermione asks sharply.

"I'll stop talking to Riddle. Happy?"

Again Hermione seems out of her depth. Perhaps she was expecting a stronger fight.

"_But," _Harry hisses softly. "We don't tell _anyone _about the Diary."

There is a complaint sitting on Hermione's lips.

"The professors…" she starts.

"In case you'd forgotten, last year, our Defence Against the Dark Art's professor had Voldemort sticking out from the back of his head_!"_

Hermione looks torn between agreeing with Harry and coming up with a counterargument.

"Look, there hasn't been anything going on in the last two weeks. Maybe Slytherin's monster tripped down the stairs and broke its neck of something. _If _there's another incident, I'll talk to a professor about it."

There is a few seconds pause before Hermione responds.

"Oh alright," she says curtly. "Just…" her sharp expression drops and a frown pulls at her eyebrows. "-be _careful _Harry."

Harry gives a small smile as reassurance.

"I will, Hermione."

Apparently satisfied, Hermione takes the bag slung over her shoulder and drops it heavily on one of the low tables in front of Harry's armchair.

"Well, you haven't done your transfigurations essay because Ron and I finished it while you were playing quidditch. If you aren't writing in that silly book, you might as well do it now."

Harry sinks even deeper into his armchair; so far that he feels like it would swallow him if he went any further. However Hermione tilts her head and crosses her arms, then gives Harry a glare which is possibly more terrifying than a coming across a three headed dog in the middle of the night.

It is late when Harry returns to the dormitory. He pulls out the Diary, climbs into bed and closes the curtains quickly. Around him, there is the last minute hustle of his classmates hurrying to bed, overlaid by a soft murmur of conversation; loud enough to disguise the scratching of a quill against parchment.

As his the first drop of ink falls from his quill, Harry is suddenly struck doubt. Hermine's warnings twirl in his mind like autumn leaves, easy to knock aside but somehow difficult to catch. He watches the inky dot to sink into the page, hand unmoving. There are tense seconds where he could have closed to Diary, put it back in his bag. Let it be forgotten.

_Harry?_

Words are cold. The two dimensional loops and lines hold none of the softness of a voice but Harry can feel _something _behind what is written before him. Behind the featureless words, tucked behind the slant of Riddle's handwriting, is warmth.

_Are you alright? Your previous departure was sudden._

Harry does not close the book.

_Hermione wants me to stop writing to you._

Harry bites his lip lightly. _Something _gnaws at his heart. Worry? If Riddle now disapproves of Hermione's judgement, Harry will have to choose between two friends.

_I believe she is jealous._

_Jealous?_

It is not an emotion Harry had read in Hermione's actions. At all.

_She does not understand what Hogwarts is to people like us but she's aware that we are different. That we are special. People yearn and fear what they do not understand._

_Hermione's not like that!_

A flash of ire.

_I did not mean to offend your friend. Jealousy is an entirely _human_ characteristic._

_What makes you think she's _jealous_?_

Harry is still confused about this point.

_Did she comment on our connection? Did she ask you to prioritise your classmates over a memory in a book?_

Harry's confusion deepens but not in the same way as previously. Hermione _had _said those things – not exactly, but similar enough. Could the Diary hear? However the notion was so strange that Harry half dismissed it immediately. He was still curious.

_Were you listening?_

There is a pregnant pause.

_Books do not have ears. I merely listed responses that would be plausible if your friend were jealous._

As though a weight had been placed on Harry's shoulders, they slump down heavily. He had always thought that Hermione was looking out for him, was worried about him without strings attached. The knowledge that she was competing for his attention was disheartening, even if Hermione was still one of his best friends.

At least he still has Riddle.

_Tom_

Pause.

_Yes Harry?_

Harry doesn't know how to shape the warm bubble inside of him into words that can be conveyed – it is warm and comforting, sweet but also a little sad, a pressure on his chest that aches as his heart beats. He rests a hand on the Diary, lets the feeling fill him until it tickles his fingertips.

_I understand, Harry._

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**AN: If you can, please leave a review! Any advice and criticism is greatly appreciated! **


	2. 1-2 Betrayal

**AN: Second chapter. **

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**Betrayal**

Tom understands in a way that Ron and Hermione have never managed. Perhaps it is their shared experiences or Tom's thoughtful personality, but he always seems to know what to say to reassure Harry. Harry has never had a friend like this, never even thought it was possible.

_Although maybe he had dreamed, when he had been little. _

Hermione has been keeping a careful eye on him and while she attempts to be subtle, this has never been her strong point. Her sharp eyes are unnerving. At first Harry glares back. Eventually, when Ron starts looking like a rabbit in a battlefield, they settle to avoiding each other's gaze. Still, Hermione's eyes are ever present when he pulls his textbooks out of his bag, studying each cover with unconcealed fascination.

He is more careful with his handling of the little black book, which is small but hardly small enough to fit in a pocket. These days he leaves it in the bottom of his trunk, under his invisibility cloak. Harry has never lost anything from Hogwarts dormitories but he still worries. The feeling bites at him – soft but nagging, yapping at the back of his mind like the solemn calls of a stray dog left behind. When Tom is not close, there is a unexplainable gap, so terribly unnatural… Harry wonders how he had not felt it before.

At least Tom is waiting when he returns in the evening.

_How was your day today?_

Their conversation usually starts in the most trivial places.

_Awful. I stirred a sleeping draught anticlockwise instead of clockwise. _

_I forgot my charms homework in the common room. _

_I tripped over the stairs. _

Tom comments with some patient remark to each of Harry's daily rants, yet as the days pass, Harry begins to _feel _his amusement, seeping through the pages. It makes these small pains in to laughs and makes each day just that tiny bit more bearable.

The weeks roll forward.

Harry finds himself glad that he decided to keep the Diary in his dormitory when a gnome bursts his bag open at Valentines.

At some point, Hermione must have spoken to Ron because his daily emotions go from confusion to confusion mixed with worry. It becomes more difficult then, to be discrete, because Ron shares a dormitory and knows that Harry stays up later than the others, with his curtains closed tight, an ink pot sitting on his bedside table.

"I think Hermione's right," he whispers to Harry, when Hermione is out of the room. "I don't think that diary is safe."

"I said I wouldn't talk to him."

Ron just gives a raised eyebrow and a _yeah sure. _He does not take it further though, which Harry appreciates.

Despite Tom's reassurance that both of them probably has Harry's best interests at heart, it is difficult to not be annoyed at Hermione for speaking about him behind his back. Their conversations become tense – oddly forced – and without warning, they find their days filled with silence, only interjected by the most necessary comments and annoyed sighs.

Perhaps it is the pressure that their tense relationship pushes on Harry or the lack of sleep from talking past an appropriate hour to Tom, but the days become harder to get through. He is tired by lunch, shattered by dinner. His homework suffers. Oliver becomes increasingly annoyed at his lack of concentration at Quidditch practice and more than once, Harry nearly falls asleep on his broom mid-flight. Yet Harry can hardly be inclined to care; the world seems a distant place and the little troubles that perpetuate his day are quickly forgotten.

_He still worries, occasionally, that his hours are going missing._

By March, the snow has melted, leaving the grass wet and fresh on the school grounds. With the chill in the air lifting and the days bright, the mood of the school improves noticeably. The fact that Slytherin's monster has not made its attack for almost two months is also a significant contributor to the joyful atmosphere (excluding, of course, particular members of Slytherin).

Ron mentions this one lazy breakfast on Saturday.

"Once Madame Pomphrey fixes the petrified people, everyone'll forget about it," he says. The prospect sends a jolt of hope up Harry's spine. How he would love to forget about this mess…

Hermione sniffs indignantly.

"Perhaps," she says. "Although _some parts _haven't been sorted yet, have they?"

She sends Harry a look which makes him sink a little into his chair.

"Look, I said I would give the diary in if anything happens. And I haven't been writing in it!" he says, although a twist of guilt stabs at his stomach even as the words come out of his mouth. Hermione sighs.

"I know. I just think…" she trails off, bites her lower lip and Harry is stuck by how lost she looks. With her haughty confidence, it strikes a jarring note.

"You haven't been yourself recently," she finishes.

"I'm alright," Harry says. He gives a small smile of reassurance. He _is_ alright – more than alright – in fact, he can't remember in his life feeling so calm, with all worries forgotten. Suddenly the annoyance at Hermione fades, replaced by something close to pity. _She _doesn't have a Tom by her side. _She _doesn't have a true friend… Not pity then, but an elated glee or a smug satisfaction, because Harry finally feels that he has the upper hand.

The day passes uneventful and evening comes with the swift darkening of the thick blanket of clouds that covers the sky. Harry leaves the common room early and heads up the stairs to the dormitories. It is empty when he gets there; the beds are neatly made with the curtains bunched at the end of the beds, as neat lines of deep crimson hanging close to the wall. With the light coming through the window dying swiftly, the candles have been lit and their warm glow flickers across the canvases, dancing over the stone. Harry much prefers the softer glow that the flames cast in comparison to the harsh glare of electric lights, even though Hermione occasionally complains that they are too dark.

Taking a few long steps, Harry crosses the room to his own bed. His trunk lies next to it and he opens it quickly, pulls away his invisibility cloak to reveal the small black book underneath. There is a tingle that runs across his fingertips as he touches the Diary, as if he has dipped his fingers into hot water.

Harry picks it up, grabs a quill and climbs onto the side of the bed. The bed is raised off the floor with enough height that he can sits with his legs swinging underneath him, the Diary resting on his lap.

_Tom, I think Hermione suspects something. _

The words sit there for a second, glistening in the candlelight. Then, as though they are being sucked into the page, they disappear. Almost immediately new words take its place, with Tom's flowing script replacing Harry's scrawl.

_Don't worry about it, Harry. _

Just as the words fully form, there is a gasp from the door.

A cold chill runs over Harry. He feels like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over his head and tremors run down his body, starting at the top of head then rushing to his fingertips. His chest clenches, painfully so, and unfathomable dread settles in his stomach. In those horrible seconds – before he sees who he is at the door, before he even looks up from the Diary – Harry knows he has made a critical error.

It is Hermione.

Harry slams the Diary shut, the quill dropping out of his hand in the process.

"I knew it!" Hermione's voice is shrill. Even from the doorway, Harry can see Hermione's fierce glare. Panic floods through Harry. Guilt too, because Hermione looks as much hurt as she is surprised.

"I told you Harry! I told you that the diary was dangerous!" She takes a step into the room and Harry suddenly feels very uncomfortable, like child caught with his hand in a fridge. All the excuses he could have made fly out of his brain, leaving him empty in a whirlpool of frantic thoughts; not that excuses could have helped, with Hermione looking like Harry has murdered someone.

"Hermione, please…"

"And you said you wouldn't be writing in it! You _promised," _Hermione interjects and it hurts because it is _true. _

Then Harry spots a flash of red behind Hermione. Ron is looking horrendously guilty at the doorway, shuffling his feet with a blush that reaches his ears. Suddenly Harry understands the situation perfectly; Ron has told Hermione of his habits, how he shuts himself away every evening with the scratching of quill against parchment. It is this sight – one friend reprimanding him as though he has committed a heinous crime and the other looking uncomfortable to be in the same room – which sends anger burning through Harry. It pushes away any other thoughts and his lips twist into a snarl.

Harry stands and faces Hermione. The leather cover of the Diary digs into his hands as they clench into fists.

"And what's it to _you, _who_ I_ talk to?"

Harry gives it as much venom as he can muster and he can only feel a flash of satisfaction as Hermione falters.

"Harry, I know you don't want to get Hagrid in trouble, but this isn't you! It's controlling you in some way," she says.

"Controlling me? Aren't _you_ the one telling me who I can and can't talk to? Aren't _you _the one talking about me behind my back!" Harry's voice rises.

"Because I'm your _friend_ Harry! This isn't _right!"_ Hermione's voice has risen to match Harry's own.

"Just because you don't understand! Just because you don't know what it's like to have a friend who _actually_ understands you!"

Hermione's eyes are shining. She takes a second to compose herself, biting on her lower lip with eyes momentarily downcast, before she continues with a much more level voice.

"I'm giving Professor McGongall the diary, Harry," she says. "I'm going now."

Harry clenches the book in his hand tighter.

"I'm not…"

"_Expelliarmus!" _

The book flies out of Harry's hand as though tugged out by an invisible string. Shocked at the sudden movement, Harry is frozen for a single, crucial second. When he turns to dive for the book, Hermione is already there, catching the flying object with a speed that Harry had never thought would be possible from her. She doesn't look at Harry's face again as she turns quickly and disappears down the stairs.

Harry runs towards her. Ron steps across the door, blocking his path.

"Hey, look… Harry…"

"_Get. Out. Of. My. Way_," Harry bares through gritted teeth. He tries to shove past Ron but Ron is much taller than Harry and just as determined to stop him.

"She has a point…"

"I don't care!"

"… and that was really mean – she was worried about you…"

Harry doesn't know which is worse; the fact Ron is right or the fact Harry knows he is and still finds himself unable to believe it. The nagging voice telling him how wrong he is has settled to the back of his mind, as though it is a separate entity pushed out of the decision making process, now watching him with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Harry wants to sink into the floor. He wants to disappear.

Harry stops pushing for a second. Ron falters slightly at the sudden lack of force. Taking the initiative, Harry ducks under Ron's arm and turns sharply for the stairs. He takes them two, three at a time, not worrying that his ankles are suffering from the sharp jolts that shoot up them, and within seconds, he is rushing into the common room.

The first thing he notices is that everyone in the common room is already looking his way. The eyes bore into him; cold, unknowable, threatening.

"Harry?"

It's Neville.

"Are you okay? Hermione was crying…"

Harry's heart is pounding and there is a high pitched whine in his ear.

"Where is she?"

Neville's mouth shuts. It is reminiscent of last year, as he stood in front of Harry, Ron and Hermione in this very common room, refusing to let them lose points for Gryffindor; there is the same grim line of his lips, the fire in his eyes. Despite his soft features, he has developed a hardness to him which is difficult to impasse. The silence of the common room is deafening. Their eyes are still on him – quiet, accusing.

_What is he doing?_

Hermione has come into _his _dormitory, violated _his _privacy. _She _had taken the first move, _she _had broken his trust.

_But he had lied to _her _first, he had broken _her _trust; for weeks and weeks beforehand. _

She was just _jealous _of Tom, trying to take away one of the few things that made his life worthwhile… and Harry was angry. Angry at Hermione for what she had done, for Ron for letting it happen, Neville for not letting him fix this before it was too late…

Inhaling deeply, Harry tries to get his bearings. His thoughts are scattered, pulling him in different directions. He pushes them down with a mental shove, letting them tighten into a knot near his chest where it cannot appear on his face.

"Is she okay?" Harry asks.

Neville's eyes soften.

"She's gone to see Professor McGonagall; she said it was urgent…"

A loud set of footsteps stop just behind Harry.

"Alone?" It is Ron. There is tone of worry in his voice and it doesn't help to stop the creep of doubt in Harry's mind either. It has been weeks since the last attack but still, the school hasn't lost its edge of nervousness and though it is still early in the evening, the candlelit corridors would be almost empty.

"Ginny went with her," Neville says.

Harry looks at Ron. There is a frown on his face but he doesn't say anything.

He turns back to the round entrance to the Common Room; they had ages until curfew and it wouldn't be hard to catch up with Hermione as she made her way back from the transfigurations classroom. Ron is still staring at him.

"It might be a good idea to check up on her," Harry says. Ron still seems conflicted, so Harry adds with a quiet whisper, "It's not like we can overtake her to Professor McGongall's office."

Yet even as he says it, there is a part of Harry that knows that if they walk fast and his memory of the staircase schedule was right, it might be possible to catch Hermione before she hands the Diary in. He does not plan what he would do if this were the case – hardly dares to even acknowledge the thought.

But Ron seems satisfied.

"Alright," he says with a shrug. "But let's be quick: I promised Seamus a game of chess."

With the drama settling, most of the focus on Harry has dissipated. He spots Dean with his nose in a muggle magazine, in front of chessboard with several pieces looking rather irritated at being ignored. Harry nods.

"Thanks," he hears Ron say to Neville as he walks towards the exit.

The corridors are quiet. Their synchronised footsteps echo across the stone, hard taps fading slowly into the inky ceiling above, the effect only amplified by the lack of conversation. The air seems heavy – even the slight airflow down the corridors is quiet with the stillness of evening settling in. Harry finds his footsteps quickening – far from a run but enough for the steady rhythm to build tension.

"Harry," Ron says.

"Yeah?" Harry replies.

They turn at the end of the corridor, into the main stairwell. Far below, there is the soft groaning of a staircase moving from one entrance to the next. Here there are portraits hung on the walls and aminated chatter from them breaks the ominous atmosphere.

"You don't really think Riddle is your friend, right?"

Harry doesn't reply. He could but he doesn't. Part of him acknowledges that it is a purposeful move on his part, one to settle his own bitterness.

"'cause it seems like a really dark artefact… and Dad always said: _don't trust something if you can't see where it keeps its brain."_

Maybe Ron is right. He is much more familiar with magical norms and would know the difference between a harmless magical artefact and a dangerous one. Yet even as doubt opens its tender flowers to the light, the dark shadow of anger crushes it flat.

"It can't be the only talking diary in the wizarding world," Harry says. "It's like a painting." If having a conversation with a painting was normal, then why not a conversation with a memory in a book? To Harry it felt the same.

"But paintings aren't…" Ron looks nervously to a portrait to his left which had just shot a dirty stare at him. "They aren't really _alive. _They're just impressions of their subject…"

"Tom is alive."

"That's the problem," Ron says darkly.

They are at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. They turn to the next corridor.

"Fine. Tom _was _alive," Harry says. "He's a memory." He can't help the exasperation that enters his voice. He is tired of explaining this to his friends, tired of the fact they cannot seem to _comprehend _just how amazing Tom is.

The corridor is like the first, dark near the edges but well-lit by candles that are blown by the intermittent breeze through the dark windows to the side. There are a few portraits here too, dotted between the doors to the classrooms and their frames reflect the light, giving the corridor a brighter feeling than there might otherwise have been.

"Well I suppose the professors will know what to do…"

"But what if they don't?" Harry says. "What if they throw Tom away without listening to him?"

There is a moments pause. In any normal conversation, Harry would have missed it, but by now he is so used to Tom's dramatic pauses that his nerves spike at the little interlude in the conversation.

"Harry, Tom isn't you," Ron says.

_Of course not_, _that would be ridiculous._

Harry stops and turns to Ron, some comment on his tongue, but they melt away when he sees his expression. A shiver runs down his spine, as if someone has poured something cold down his back, and his leg freezes midstride. It is like he has been dunked in water – pressed from all sides as the waves lap over his head and his breath is constricted in his chest.

Ron is pale. His eyes look past Harry, to the corridor beyond.

Harry turns slowly. He dreads what he will see - part of him does not want to see – but his body moves without his permission.

At first he doesn't spot it. The end of the corridor is a little darker than it should have been… probably a candle has been blown out… but weren't they enchanted?

It's hair.

A halo of hair that is splayed across the floor at the turning of the corridor, just peeking out around the corner; tumbling curls that seem to have a life of their own and a distinctive shade of brown recognisable even in the low light.

It is familiar.

"_Hermione."_

They are running.

It might have been a stupid idea to run when Slytherin's monster could be lurking around the corner. Harry couldn't have cared less. His heart pounds even as his head remains cold and the few seconds that it takes to reach the end of the corridor seem endless.

Hermione is lying face up, her eyes glassy as they stare at the ceiling. When Harry touches her cheek, it is cold and hard, as if this wasn't Hermione but a marble statue made in her likeness. Yet Harry has no doubt that this is Hermione. There is a frozen frown on her face – a determined one which is reserved for moments when Hermione is tackling a hard problem – which is unmistakably Hermione. Harry also notices that is something about her posture, hands clenched and shoulders taunt, that gives the impression she had been waiting for whatever had come for her.

Clutched in her unmoving hand is a small hand mirror, the silver surface throwing a slash of light onto the otherwise dark ceiling.

* * *

**I caught a few mistakes with tenses during proofreading. I think they're gone but please point them out if possible. Thank you for reading!**


	3. 1-3 Chamber

**Son of Whitebeard: Thank you!**

**Kako666: No spicy spice I'm afraid. Go watch Spice for more spice. **

* * *

**Chamber**

There's no difference between falling and flying [1]. Well, that's a lie. There's no difference between falling and_ floating_ because taking the right frame of reference, you find that they are essentially the same thing. It's why falling is accompanied by the uncomfortable sensation in your gut, as if all your organs are floating, because they _are. _With the influence of gravity demoted to a background curiosity – a technical detail – they are weightless. Of course, falling and floating have a very crucial difference: falling without enough speed brings you crashing to the ground.

_Harry has been floating since his first conversation with Tom Riddle. _

The Diary is missing.

Harry has checked Hermione's pockets and come up empty. She had never made it to their destination. Ginny's expression is ashen as she explains how they were going towards Professor McGonagall's office when she realised she needed to go to the bathroom, and by the time she had returned, Harry and Ron had already found a petrified Hermione in the corridor.

"Did you hear anything?" Harry asks.

Ginny shakes her head.

Harry thinks she must be having a terrible time, as she is only in her first year of Hogwarts and already finding herself in danger – even Harry had only dealt with one troll and a three headed dog this time last year - but Ginny is remarkably composed, her expression hard and her gaze steady on Harry.

It is almost unnerving.

A few minutes later, Professor McGonagall appears. She checks on Hermione, has a brief chat with Madame Pomphrey. Although the lines in her face seem deeper than ever, the elderly professor's eyes flash with energy as she stares Harry and Ginny down, asking them whether they knew Hermione's intentions… whether it could be connected to the incident.

For a long moment, Harry feels the truth will burst out of him. The horrible, condemning truth: that Hermione suspected his connection to the attacks (or at least, that Tom's) and that Harry had wanted her to stay silent. However, as he opens his mouth, the words get stuck in his throat, pulled down by the heavy anchor in his chest, and he only manages a choked stutter in response. Eventually, he shakes his head, eyes moving downcast as he is unable to keep his gaze on the Professor's stern face.

If Ron had been besides him in that moment, it may have been different. But it had not been so.

"I was talking to her on the way and she said she had an argument with Harry, Professor," Ginny says. "She was quite upset about it… but I don't think it was anything to do with Chamber of Secrets."

Harry looks sharply to Ginny. Ginny has tilted her head slightly and the slant of her eyebrows is in the perfect image of an innocent school girl…

_Yet, Harry cannot help thinking he recognises this expression. _

Professor McGonagall gives a soft sigh.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Mr Potter. It wasn't your fault."

Harry looks to Professor McGonagall. The hardness in her stare has alleviated somewhat and there is even a small, reassuring smile on her lips. Harry's stomach twists with guilt and confusion but his words are now buried even further down. He is still staring when she moves away.

Having finished helping Madame Pomphrey set the unmoving body of Hermione down onto one of the infirmary beds, Ron turns to Harry with a quizzical look.

"Do you know what's happened with…"

Harry tells him. Ron's eyebrows pull in. It is a frown.

"Well telling anyone won't do much good now," Harry says. He cannot imagine what he must look like to Ron. He wouldn't be surprised if Ron walks out and spills everything to Professor McGonagall right now… but as the seconds drag on, it becomes apparent that this is not Ron's intention.

"Let's go to Hagrid," Ron says, his voice tentative. Harry turns and looks at him. Ron's expression is nervous but there is nothing more to it.

Looking towards Hermione, Harry contemplates the suggestion; it is the only lead they have, now that the Diary is gone and it is not like they have anything to lose by doing this. He watches as Madame Pomphrey closes the curtains around Hermione's bed. It feels odd, with just the two of them on one side of the barrier as it is closed; as if a part of them is being chipped away leaving a yearning gap behind. Harry wonders what Hermione would have done, if it had been Ron or Harry in her position. Panic, probably. Then have some brilliant idea to make a breakthrough, with enough energy in her attitude to bring the other around.

Hagrid is arrested.

They follow the spiders into the Forbidden Forest and learn of Hagrid's innocence.

_And of the cracks in Tom's story. _

Harry's emotions are turbulent but he is unsure how to deal with them. It's strange, not having anyone to explain his feelings to. They weigh on his mind heavily, like a physical weight that drags him down. He does not know when he had become so dependent; he had not noticed the weightlessness of his mind when he had first started unloading his feelings into the Diary and now the responsibility of hanging onto them seems unbearable.

Harry has another conundrum to add to his woes: Ginny.

Something about her tugs at Harry's attention. Maybe it is how he catches her gaze every now and then – in the common room, at breakfast, between lessons – with a gentle smile on her thin lips that matches the colour of her hair. Harry has never noticed her eyes before, which mimic the enthralling brown of freshly fallen leaves in autumn, but he does so now, trying to read the hidden emotion behind their clear surface.

Unable to reign in his confusion any longer, Harry strikes up a conversation with her at lunch. They are in the library, hidden behind a high shelf that is stacked with old charms textbooks. Ginny has a thick tome in her hand which seems far too difficult for a First Year to read, although Harry remembers what Hermione considered 'light reading' last year and brushes the thought away.

"Did you see anybody around when Hermione was petrified?"

Ginny shakes her head, gaze never moving off Harry. Her polite smile does not reach her eyes, which are shadowed with dark bags. Harry frowns.

"Are you alright?" he asks. "You look tired."

"I've had trouble sleeping recently," she says lightly.

Harry has had trouble sleeping too. In fact he hasn't slept very well for several months, even in the brief respite that the lack of attacks had given them. Harry imagines his face must look pretty terrible too.

"Maybe you should go to bed earlier," he suggests.

Ginny looks amused.

"I do," she says. "_But sometimes, I feel like I've only slept minutes when the morning comes_!" It strikes Harry that her tone is odd, as if she is quoting something that Harry is supposed to have read before. Strangely, Harry feels like he _has _heard that sentence somewhere, although exactly where is lost to him.

"Oh," Harry says. It isn't a very helpful response but he doesn't know what else to say.

"It's alright," Ginny says, with a nod and another smile. She slots the book back onto its place on the shelf with a soft thud, then moves along the bookshelf, away from Harry.

"Ginny," Harry says. Ginny turns and looks at him with an eyebrow raised. "If you need any help or anything, just send a message… I'll come."

Harry immediately regrets his words – he sound arrogant and stupid. Ginny grins, showing teeth.

"I'll bear it in mind," she says, knowingly.

_But sometimes, I feel like I've only slept minutes when the morning comes. _

It is only hours later, when Harry is heading towards the infirmary with Ron when he remembers where he has seen that phrase before: he had written it himself, several days ago, in a little black book.

Hermione's note reveals the form of Slytherin's true monster.

Of course it is a giant snake – it is an almost disappointingly simple puzzle.

_Tom Riddle can talk to snakes. _

Ginny disappears.

There is an ominous message splattered across the wall in red.

"_If you need any help…"_

Falling towards the ground and the ground rushing towards you are really the same thing, taking the relevant frames of reference. Which makes you feel better? The thought of being an insignificant speck moving towards a huge mass that couldn't care less whether you hit or not, or of being chased down by a planet that could crush you at impact?

Harry's eyes are opening. The truth looms ahead of him – hard and impassive. He does not know which would be the more comforting thought: that he had fought his way to the truth on his own accord, or that it had come crashing down on him.

"… _just send a message."_

Somewhere, Tom's lips must be twisted in dark amusement, as he thinks about how easily he made the Boy-Who-Lived dance on the palm of his hand.

"A boy?"

Myrtle's grey face is dark with what appears to be an angry blush.

"Yes, a _boy _in the girls bathroom! I opened the door, about to tell him to go away…"

Harry interrupts her rant.

"Did you know Tom Riddle?" He tries to keep his voice steady but he cannot help the edge of bitterness that appears. Like a stick pushed into a lake, the name pulls out his emotions into an uncomfortable whirlpool.

Ron looks startled.

Myrtle's face goes from indignant to confused to excited very quickly.

"Oooh yes." There is definitely a blush on Myrtle's cheeks now. "The Slytherin one that _everyone _talks about in the girls bathroom!"

"You never met him then? You wouldn't recognise his voice?"

Myrtle shakes her head.

Harry nods, feeling sick. He doesn't know whether it would have been better if Myrtle _had_ recognised him. To be honest, it may not have made a difference. Harry knows what to expect in the gloom that resides in the long pipe that has opened up in front of them, with a certainty that keeps his voice steady.

"Thanks Myrtle," Harry says.

Myrtle is floating halfway between the floor and ceiling, where the light from one of the high windows washes over her half transparent form. Even though there is no wind, her pigtails are swept backwards and her Hogwarts uniform trails behind her in a smooth arc, wispy grey at the edges, fading into nothing like a halo of smoke. It is the same uniform as Tom's, Harry realises now – the same layers of cloak, jacket and shirt… the same shape of the collar.

It is a subtle detail, easily missed… still, it nags Harry that they were so blind to the clues all this time.

"Harry…? What's going on?"

Harry takes a deep breath.

He feels oddly calm, tucked away into a cocoon. It is not denial. He knows what he_ should_ be feeling, and thinks he has felt them all in the last few hours, yet the emotions seem to have fallen silent now, leaving him alone.

"Ron, I think Tom Riddle's the heir of Slytherin. I think he tricked Ginny into going down there."

_Or maybe…_

Harry does not want to tell Ron about his recent conversations with Ginny. If his suspicion is right, then there is nothing that can be done by revealing his fears; if he is wrong, then all the better.

_Ginny smiling Riddle's smile. _

_Ginny saying Riddle's lines. _

_Ginny disappearing. _

Although pale, Ron does not seem particularly afraid. He _has_ already experienced his greatest fear in the Forbidden Forest so maybe it is expected – one cannot be scared forever. In fact, the grim line of his lips is determined, his eyes sharp.

"We'll get him," Ron says. "We'll make him pay."

His anger sooths the coldness that has started spreading in Harry's body. They stand side by side, taking in the darkness of the passage, confirming each other's commitment and building up their courage. It is reminiscent of when they stood outside the third floor corridor last year and Harry can imagine Hermione's presence behind them, leading them on with sharp encouragement. These are his true friends, he tells himself.

Harry cannot stop himself falling.

He _can _make sure he hits the floor running.

Harry is not surprised when he finds Tom Riddle standing next to Ginny's body. Disappointed, perhaps. Sickened.

A small smirk lines Riddle's lip as he leans on a stone pillar, reminiscent of the one that had sat on Ginny's lips only hours before. He watches Harry make his way through the Chamber with one small splash after another following his footsteps. Harry's wand is out and his eyes never leave the ghostly figure in front of him.

"I thought you would be happy to see me, Harry," Riddle says. His tone is soft but can be clearly heard in the heavy silence of the Chamber. Harry does not reply, instead tracing an arc across the floor to get closer to Ginny whilst avoiding Riddle. Riddle does not move – only his eyes follow Harry; little more than black pools in the low light.

Once Harry reaches Ginny, he slowly bends down. Keeping his wand on Riddle, he looks down to study Ginny's face. Riddle's tall form remains in his peripheral vision, ghost-like.

"Ginny?" he says, loudly. It is a hallow sound in a Chamber made of stone.

Ginny is pale. When Harry touches her cheek, it is icy under his cold fingers. For a second, Harry is filled with dread. He tries to keep his breath even as he presses two fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse that he cannot feel. Then, he spots the tiny flutter of a breath on her lips and a flood of relief washes over him.

"She's alive," Riddle says. "For now."

Harry stands and looks to him.

"Did you do this?" he asks. There is a careful note in Harry's voice that he cannot hide; part of him does not want to know the answer, another already knows the response before it leaves Riddle's mouth.

"Yes."

Harry is not surprised. He swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth.

"You opened the Chamber of Secrets."

It is not a question. Perhaps it shouldn't have been a question since Hermione had been attacked as soon as she tried to hand in the Diary, since they found out that Hagrid was not the culprit the first time round, since they found out that the monster was a giant snake…. There are so many pieces to the puzzle that fit together snuggly, Harry would have to be blind not to see it now.

Riddle tilts his head to one side, as though studying an interesting specimen.

"I did."

Harry's words are clogged in his throat. He feels… something. Anger. Hurt. At Riddle. At himself.

"How?" he manages.

"Do finish your sentence," Riddle says, with a flat smile that holds no warmth.

"How did you open the Chamber of Secrets? You're… you were in a book."

There is a pause. Harry knows this trick – Riddle did it often enough in written form – to create a sense of suspense that left Harry hanging onto every word like a child craving affection. It works.

"_Ginny_ was very good at cooperating, even if she didn't know she was doing it," Tom says. He laughs; a cold laugh that echoes. "It was quite amusing."

_Tiredness. _

_Memory loss. _

Although Harry can hear Tom Riddle's words perfectly well, he struggles to comprehend them, as though someone has cut the connection between those structured sounds and their meaning.

"It was rather _irritating _when the mudblood took away the Diary from you. I was so looking forward to having a chat. But no matter – you are here now, despite the delay."

Guilt rolls through Harry when Riddle mentions Hermione. Hermione had been brave – braver than Harry had known and he feels terrible for ever betraying her trust.

"Hermione knew," Harry says. The bitterness in his voice is not intentional. "She _knew _that the monster was a snake and that the heir was a Parselmouth, but she couldn't warn me because she thought you had _possessed_ me or something…"

"I could have, had there been reason to," Tom comments. "You were quite eager to spill your woes into my Diary. But I was patient. I was interested in what you had to say… _you _who had defeated the greatest wizard of all time as a baby… the _saviour _of the wizarding world.

"And our strange similarities too: Halfbloods. Orphans. Parselmouths. "

Riddle looks at Harry but he does not seem to see the boy in front of him, rather looks straight through him to the stone statue of Slytherin behind him. Harry swallows, which is painful when his mouth is so dry. He _has _noticed and it stings all the more because of it.

"Yet so… _weak,_" Riddle says, tone dismissive. He twirls a wand in his fingers, Ginny's wand, and Harry's fists clench in a flash of anger that pulls the fog away from his dulled mind.

"I am not weak!" Harry shouts.

Riddle only sneers.

"Yet you are here, under _my _control, all because you trusted a silly little _Diary _who understood you _more than anyone else."_

It hurts, how Tom uses Harry's own words against him.

"At first I thought you had some hidden power… But you've only survived because of the stupidity of those around you. Because circumstances favoured you greatly. You! My fated adversary, stood here only because of _luck_. How quaint."

Riddle has moved away from the pillar and takes a leisurely step towards Harry. Harry is frozen as his mind whirls… There is something strange in Riddle's words.

"What do you mean, _fated adversary? _We've only known each other for a month!_"_

And Riddle grins, a terrible wide grin that stretches across his face.

"Oh Harry…" he whispers.

He raises his wand. A flash of burning red follows his movements – the slant of his letters, the flick at the ends… this is Tom's writing. Harry's heart skips a beat.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Harry tells himself he is not surprised.

He should have expected this. It is a classic sort of reveal, so terrible cliché, and after all, his life always seems to have one direction – like a moth to a flame with scarlet eyes.

He should not be surprised.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

It is a lie every time.

Tom Riddle's betrayal is a surprise every time, from however far Harry sees it coming.

"_For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first." __  
― Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games -_

It feels like Harry has been kicked in the stomach. The air has left his lungs and though his heart beats, his breathing is slow.

_Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets. _

_Riddle set the monster on Hermione. _

_Riddle lied to him. _

He accepted the first betrayals with hurt, anger, but also with dignity.

_Tom Riddle is Voldemort. Voldemort is Tom Riddle. _

The last blow is hard because it came so suddenly, like the last nail in an already peppered coffin. It is in this moment that Harry realises that every scrap of understanding and compassion that Riddle has shown him has been a lie, because all Harry sees in Voldemort is a heartless monster who killed his parents.

_He had still hoped, just a little, that Riddle was not who he seemed. _

Riddle's eyes are distant but his voice is strong. There is a manic glee to it that doesn't suit his refined appearance.

"What is a decade in the face of eternity? If I kill you, then _I_ would be undefeated. Lord Voldemort would rise again, greater and stronger than ever, ready to lead the Wizarding World to the victory it deserves…"

Having taken another step towards Harry, Riddle is uncomfortably close. Ginny's wand is held lightly in his long fingers and it is pointed at Harry's chest; Harry's wand is up, but they _both _know who holds the cards here. Harry has already told Riddle of his duelling experience.

Harry is afraid but there is anger too, which warms his chest with bitter fire.

"_Voldemort _tried and failed! I saw him last year; he was stuck on the back of Quirrell's head, drinking unicorn blood to survive like a leech. What makes you think he can do any better?"

A flash of red crosses Riddle's eyes and Harry stumbles backwards in shock. Suddenly he can see Riddle's face in his memory of Voldemort from last year – in the angle of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes. It sickens him to think he had not seen this sooner: that Tom Riddle _was _Voldemort.

"It appears, that in following our quest for immortality, my other half has become _unstable_. He let a foolish young woman banish him and failed to kill _you _last year through _elementary _mistakes. He is unfit to bear our great name, while _I _am untainted by his experiments."

"For all the changes, you still retain your over-inflated ego, Riddle," Harry spits.

"Very well," Riddle says, eyes narrowed. "Goodbye, Harry Potter. It's _almost _a shame: you had such _potential_."

* * *

**1\. Sherlock, season 3. Because I'm that unoriginal.**

**Although if you get a giant elevator above the Earth which is falling, and a beam of light inside the elevator, then the beam of light bends which wouldn't happen without the Earth so falling not quite equal to floating. Although gravity and acceleration can be considered the same thing. There's the thought experiment about the train on the bridge with a hole in it travelling close to the speed of light which gives rise to the conclusion that g is different in different frames of reference, but I'm rambling at this point. **

**Essentially, this chapter is a mess.**

**Please leave a review:)**


	4. 1-4 Remorse

**AN: ...**

**Son of a Whitebeard: Thank you!**

* * *

**Remorse**

He isn't sure how he is still alive.

There might have been a snake involved at some point.

A hat and a sword.

The snake is dead. Mouth open, eyes obscured by thick coat of blood. Riddle's eyes are smouldering.

The diary is between them. It is closer to Harry, but Harry is sitting and still recovering from a stab wound.

But it is Harry who moves first.

Harry's wand is in his hand, swinging upwards. Riddle, a heartbeat slower in his reaction, lunges to the diary with aching desperation. Harry's wand is pointing at Riddle. Riddle freezes – a brief second of hesitation – and Harry thinks that maybe he has won. But Harry knows, Riddle knows, that Harry has no idea what he is doing.

Then the point of Harry's wand is falling. The holly glints in the grimy light and Harry watches its trajectory with fascination – the wand drops down, past the foot of Slytherin's statue, past the corpse of the basilisk, down to the hem of Riddle's robes and then pointing at the diary.

Riddle's eyes meet Harry's and there is a second where their thoughts are synchronised, totally coherent. If Harry could read minds, he imagines this would be what it was like.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

He screams.

The pain is raw, slicing through him like a knife; it grips him, an iron claw, in its burning embrace. He cannot place what type of pain it is – it burns and pierces and aches all at once. It starts deep in his chest and presses against his pounding temples. Falling, spinning… he grasps at coherent thoughts but they flicker passed, too quick to catch.

_Ginny… _

_Diary… _

_Tom… _

_He walks up the carpeted stairs, wand held lightly in his long fingers. There is a slam from above… the woman has trapped herself in… how foolish to think simple wood could even slow him… _

His forehead is burning; there is hole in his chest. A hole – gaping and empty, carved out of his flesh, dripping with blood, with ink, crinkled around the edges like paper in a furnace…

"_Not Harry, please not Harry…" _

What is this? The pleas echo across the chamber through the blanket of agony. It is a familiar sound, almost comforting despite the obvious distress of the speaker.

"_Step aside, foolish girl… step aside…"_

_A wand, a hand, a flash of green light. _He is slipping, vision blurring... _but he has no vision, his landscape is devoid of anything but the muted grey of his memories to sustain him, as he is trapped in paper… _Memories overlap and blur at the edges until he can no longer tell one apart from another; is this waking up from a dream or falling into a nightmare?

The pain is all consuming: in his chest, against his temples, deep inside him as he feels himself ripped apart. _He rises from the main part, squirms pitifully as it realises it is fading, dying without an anchor – then terror, desperation as it dives to the nearest shelter… _

_He is flying away; leaving the maimed house behind as a wisp on the wind. _He is falling towards a little infant that stares oblivious with bright green eyes, into the quiet realms of the child's mind. _He must get away. _He must hide.

He is trapped but existing. Subdued but alive.

_Killed the boy. _Is the boy. _Became the boy. _

Drowning…

Fleeing… _Realising… _Dying…

Awake.

His eyes snap open. His chest is heaving and his vision is blurred, but the terrible pain has gone. There is a little ache in his chest where the memory remains, a tightness against his forehead. The memories are sour. He cannot comprehend them fully, but they leave something bitter against his throat. Another painful rasp is followed by a whimper that escapes his lips and he closes his eyes, briefly. The darkness is a comfort to his headache, although his eyes itch.

What had that been?

When his breathing has slowed to sufficient levels, he opens his eyes again. The inky pools that sit on the Chamber's ceiling come into focus with a little more ease, but are still filled with ugly blotches. He blinks. It is not his eyes, he realises, but his glasses that are skewed on his face and wet.

Sitting up is not as challenging as expected. The world tilts but he catches it, placing his palms against the cold stone floor to steady it. He takes off his glasses carefully, untangling a strand of hair caught against the frames. With the cleanest patch he can find on his grubby sleeve, he wipes it.

Ginny Weasley is awake. While pale, she doesn't look as if she had just been lying cold on the floor of the chamber not so long ago; as if it had been Harry asleep and Ginny awake. Harry wonders how long he has been out.

She looks at him. Her expression is mixed: eyebrows furrowed in what he interprets as confusion or suspicion, with wide eyes that conveyed fear. Fear _of _him. She is afraid of him. Harry wonders what he has done.

"Are you okay?" he asks, trying to be gentle with his tone. However his voice is hoarse and it comes out as a broken whisper.

Ginny's eyes are still wide, fixed intently on Harry's face, but she nods once. Then she glances to the diary on the wet floor. It does not linger there.

"I think you killed it."

_Killed _is a strange world to use for a diary. It is so ordinary, unassuming now as its black covered curled in the moisture. His wand lies next to it. Harry picks it up, tightens his grip around he familiar wood. He prods the diary with the end. The black tome does not respond.

Harry's eyes meet Ginny's and silent agreement passes between them. He picks the diary up.

The diary is clammy to the touch, dripping wet at the edges where it had fallen into a puddle. No longer does it seem particularly familiar or friendly, unaffected by its elements or buzzing with unidentifiable energy. Even as Harry holds it tentatively, the back page, soaked through, rips at the seam where the water had softened it to pulp.

It doesn't look dead. It looks like it has never been alive.

… They should move.

Harry avoids looking at Ginny's face. From the movements of the blur in his peripheral vision, he deduces that Ginny is doing the same. There is something deeply unsettling in his stomach that he cannot convey. Guilt, perhaps.

Shame.

Tom Riddle had fooled them both so effortlessly.

Ron would be worried. Harry has lost track of time, but it feels like they have been down in the Chamber for a while – the cold bites into his limbs in a way that only came with prolonged exposure to the chilly air. Yet he doesn't have the energy to make the first move, to get up from the floor where he sits, wand resting under his hand, palms digging into the stone floor. He keeps a wary eye on the diary and concentrates on breathing: in and out, rhythmically, desperately, half-afraid that if he stops trying, he would forget the simple action altogether.

Ginny moves first. She stands tentatively. She takes a step forward. Stops. Hovers over Harry as if he were glass that she was afraid to break… or rather, cut her own fingers on.

"Harry…" Although her voice is quiet, it carries in the silence of the Chamber. Harry's eyes are still on the diary, even though they itch with the need to blink.

"Harry, please… we need to…"

There is a choking sound: a sob that Ginny has swallowed back. Harry blinks slowly. Part of him wants to reach out, comfort the first-year who's first experience of school has been turned into hell by a junior dark lord. Part of him wants to laugh. But he is slow to react. He feels like he is crawling his way up through a tunnel that has risen out of the ground to encase him and there is ringing in his ears that makes Ginny's voice sound distorted.

"We need to go."

Harry grips his wand, takes a deep, shuddery breath. He looks at the hem of Ginny's robes, covered in dirt and water and a thick red liquid that he doesn't think too carefully about.

"Yeah," Harry says. "Yeah…"

Getting up is slow and leaves his heart pounding. It is easier though, once they get going. Harry opens the door with a soft mutter of '_open', _ignoring Ginny's flinch. He catches the hissing undertones this time, the soft echoes that mix in with what sounds to him like normal English.

The Chamber is dark behind them. Harry doesn't remember the light being quite so dim while they were in there. The pillars rise up out of the gloom as pale streaks and return to the gloom above and the floor slips away into an inky void. He looks away quickly and does not look back.

There is a tense knot of voices coming from Dumbledore's office, mixed with a few rasping sobs. Harry stops by the door, looks back at Ron who is pale but relieved, Ginny who still won't meet his eyes, and Lockheart who is examining the walls with glee, mind still buzzing. If he steps forward, he has explaining to do, and Harry is not sure whether he is ready for this.

He knocks. The voices stop.

Quietly, the door opens, and to his surprise, it is Mr and Mrs Weasley who is behind the door. They both look distraught – faces pasty even in the warm firelight, Mrs Weasley's eyes red, and dark bags under Mr Weasley's eyes. They look to Harry, look behind him. For a moment Mrs Weasley seems stunned, but then she rushes forward, Mr Weasley close behind. Harry steps out of the way.

"Ginny!"

"Ouch, Mum! I'm okay!"

"Oh Ginny!"

Behind his desk, an aura of steady reassurance around him, Dumbledore sits with his hands clasped in front of him. Beneath his half-moon spectacles, his eyes twinkle. Professor McGonagall is first to regain composure (Dumbledore didn't seem to have lost it in the first place); Harry hears the question before it is stated, steels himself for it.

"Do you have an explanation for this?"

Recounting the story is not as difficult as Harry imagined it would be. Once he starts, the words slip out, one by one, tracing out the days from the start of the year to today.

The voices in the pipes. The spiders. _Hermione._

He falters at the point where the diary should be. There is a heaviness on his chest that no amount of swallowing can dispel. Perhaps Dumbledore noticed the brief pause – the silence that refused to be filled – but didn't comment on it as Harry skipped over to the next part of the story.

They arrive at the Chamber.

Lockhart. The basilisk. The sword.

Harry really falters this time. He meets Dumbledore's eye and the headmaster smiles, reassuringly. It gives Harry just enough strength to carry on, to Riddle's defeat.

There is silence. Harry is finished, although the story is unfinished.

"What interests me, is how Lord Voldemort managed to open the Chamber of Secrets when he is supposedly in Albania."

When the next words finally do arrive, Harry feels like he is pushing them out with brute force.

"Tom Riddle's diary – we were talking with it for _ages_. We didn't think…"

Ginny has turned away.

Ron is frowning.

Harry feels empty.

Dumbledore holds his gaze for a few more seconds. Harry wonders if he can see the images that flicker across his mind like the sand at the bottom disturbed pool of water; hours spent under the covers with his wand in one hand, the diary in the other, of waking up feeling more tired than when he went to bed and the hours that slipped away, as though stolen in the night. Harry shifts his gaze to the floor near the headmaster's desk. The carpet there is suddenly of great interest, how the wooden leg makes square indent against the coils of fibres.

"Ah…" Dumbledore says softly. "I gather neither of you were aware of your actions when opening the Chamber then?"

Professor McGonagall gives a shocked gasp.

"_Headmaster!_ You surely can't be suggesting…!"

"That Tom Riddle was possessing students through his diary? Yes," Dumbledore clarifies firmly. From the sound of it, Ginny had burst into a fresh set of tears.

"Possessed! You-Know-Who was possessing… _Ginny?_! Ginny!" Mrs Weasley. Ginny pushes her mother away and wipes the tears from her eyes, but it is a futile move, because the tears are replaced faster than she can wipe them.

"_Oh Ginny, _why didn't you tell somebody?!" Mr Weasley says weakly, moving towards Ginny but Ginny steps away.

"_I thought… _they would _expel _me… I'm going to be _expelled… _And I've _always _wanted to go to Hogwarts…"

"_Oh Ginny! _You're not going to be _expelled. _Am I _correct, _Headmaster?_" _Mrs Weasley turns her thunderous gaze to Professor Dumbledore.

"Of course not. Nobody is being expelled today."

Harry feels something itch in his eye and removes his glasses to wipe it away. The rush of air in his chest is dizzying.

_Nobody is being expelled. _

_He wasn't being expelled. _

Although it has lost its edge, the bitterness is still in the back of his throat.

"Lord Voldemort, in his youth, was a boy with great charisma and charming appearance. Very few people were aware of his darker side until he revealed it to the world," Dumbledore continues. "We are fortunate that Harry managed to stop him before permanent damage was done; the petrified students are recovering now and Ginny has returned to us safely."

He beams.

"Now I believe all of you should go down to the hospital wing," he says. "Minerva…"

The Weasleys leave behind Professor McGonagall. Harry lingers behind until the door shuts with a quiet tap.

"Professor… there's something I want to ask," he says.

"Of course, I will answer anything within reason," the Headmaster replies. "Would you like a seat?"

Harry perches at the end of a chair, facing the Headmaster.

"When I killed the diary, I used a spell. I've never heard of it before…" But he _did _recognise the flash of acid green and Harry has his suspicions.

"Do you remember the incantation?"

It rolls of his tongue quickly. Naturally.

"_Avada Kedavra."_

Dumbledore looks stunned. It is possibly the first time Harry has seen him react visibly and it leaves a feeling of dread.

"That… was the killing curse."

Harry remembers the distinct colour from his most early memories and without proof, or further reasoning, knows it is the curse that took his parents' lives. A small voice in the back of Harry's head begs him to stop talking, to stop digging himself a grave, and that the Headmaster was now surely going to expel him for using some sort of dark magic…

"But there's something else," Harry presses on. "When I killed the diary, it hurt –" Harry gulps, the knife-like sensation in his chest still a vivid memory. "-_Really_ hurt. I don't know why. I only killed the diary."

Or the living thing inhibiting the diary, for diaries cannot be killed.

Dumbledore's blue eyes pierce him, but it is not pain he feels, but rather the curious sensation that Dumbledore was seeing _right through _him. It is a long moment before Dumbledore takes his eyes off Harry, then moves towards the desk where he diary lies, small and black on his desk.

"I believe, Harry, what you felt was remorse."

Harry blinks. He is surprised, confused, at the implication. Dumbledore must be making a terrible misunderstanding because Harry does not feel sorry at all for having banished the memory of Tom Riddle and all the trouble it has caused (_except the iciness in his heart as he remembers _his_ smile, _his_ voice, the soft touch of _his_ words, but Harry ignores that desperately because to admit it is to admit defeat…) _.

"Not remorse of the mind, but rather the soul," Dumbledore adds softly.

"What does that mean, sir?" Harry asks.

"To destroy a part of one's soul is a painful process, even more so to accept it as a necessity. It is like cutting one's arm off, with full awareness of the action that is being taken, but understanding that it is for the greater good. This is a momentous moment of self-sacrifice… akin to repentance. _Remorse_."

This makes no sense to Harry because it is _Riddle _that Harry has killed, not a part of himself. If anything, it is Voldemort that should be feeling pain, not him. Dumbledore seems to sense the question.

"Ah, but this must be very confusing for you, Harry, quite understandable." Stating the obvious, yes. "The night Voldemort tried to kill you, he left you some of his powers. He left a part of him, inside you; it was this part that pained you, Harry. And of course, to kill another, however wretched, however incomplete, is a painful act in itself. This is not a feeling to be ashamed of Harry. It is human."

This leaves Harry with more questions than answers, which he is quick to voice.

"What powers? How did he transfer them? How can a piece of him be _inside _me?"

The unspoken one: _does that make me a part of him?_

"One question at a time, Harry. The powers you have… the ability to cast the killing curse is certainly among them. I had not expected…" Dumbledore sighs heavily. "- and Parseltongue too, was a skill of Voldemort's."

Harry looks down at his hands, feeling queasy. He does not feel comfortable in his own skin, having Voldemort's powers buzzing under his fingertips… The same powers that killed his parents. The green flash of his nightmare is vivid against his eyelids.

"As for how he transferred them, I do not know, but I suspect… yes, I suspect…"

Dumbledore seems to have gone off in his own world – eyes glazed and distant. In a second, however, they are sharp and back on Harry.

"I assume you are not happy with what I have revealed just now."

_Not happy is an understatement. Harry wants to be sick. _

"I did not want to tell you this so early… I had hoped to wait until you were older, wiser… but no matter. You know now. Perhaps it is for the best. But Harry, remember, today you showed a quality that Voldemort never had – courage, self-sacrifice, but most importantly the ability to feel repentance for your actions. We must never lose our ability to feel pain. It keeps us from becoming monsters, as Voldemort became."

It was meant to be words of reassurance, encouragement, but it was wrong, all wrong. Harry hadn't _wanted _to feel pain. If Dumbledore likened it to cutting off an arm, then the pain was a response, not an act… And killing the Diary to save Ginny had been a spur of the moment decision, not a conscious choice! Harry felt like he had accomplished nothing and still felt rather ill. Dumbledore's gaze did not falter as his own dropped to his knees, where his hands were clenched tightly.

"Am I different from Voldemort?" he asks. He does not know what answer to expect. He sits and waits. Despite the solidness of the chair beneath him, he has the sensation of falling.

"Yes. You are as different as one can be."

Harry doesn't believe him.

Harry stands. He has had enough of this conversation. The queasiness is gone now, replaced by something that burns in his chest. Is it anger? He needs to be alone, to have time to mull over his situation. Or to scream into a pillow. He hasn't decided which would be the most productive course of action.

"Can I be excused?" Harry doesn't look directly at Dumbledore, instead opts to fix his eyes on the window to the left.

"You may," Dumbledore says. Harry turns sharply towards the door. A thought strikes him, and he pauses, turns back, looks directly at the elderly headmaster who is still sitting behind his desk with his fingers intertwined in front of him.

"Professor."

"Yes, Harry?"

"May I have Tom's diary?"

Dumbledore's eyes scanned over Harry quickly. There was assessment there, judgement. Harry ignored it as carefully as possible.

"Of course."

For the few seconds it takes to cross the gap between where Harry stood and the diary, Dumbledore's eyes do not once leave his face. Harry picks up the small book, cold and damp under his fingers. Tom's name is dulled by grime. It suddenly looks its age – frail, vulnerable. Suddenly Harry is confronted by an image of Tom's anguish as he spins his wand down, down to the diary, the killing curse on his tongue…

He pockets it quickly. Harry is very tired now. His eyes are heavy and his limbs are stiff; he misses bed. It seems a terrible while ago that he last slept.

* * *

**Well that was fast. I'm sorry about my incapability of stringing scenes together. I hope it was worth something:)**

**Please leave a review! Any comments are greatly appreciated! **


	5. 2-1 Memories

**A bit of a break but I'm back for the second half. **

**Thank you SonofWhitebeard for writing a review!**

* * *

**Part 2: Remembering**

**Memories **

_The clouds are bright streaks against a serene blue. He marvels at how the sunlight touches the mountain tops and valleys of a soft world of white and grey. The wind ruffles Harry's hair. It is cool against his cheeks. He raises his arm to the sky, fingers out, reaching upwards as though he could catch the clouds if he tried hard enough. _

"_Comfortable?" _

_Tom's voice. _

_The quiet amusement is there, which Harry has always picked out of his sentences in the diary but has never heard in real life. It is a softer nuance than Harry had imagined – almost lost among Tom's sharp tone. _

"_I think there's a turtle," Harry points to a particularly rounded white blob. _

_He cannot see Tom but he imagines him sat on the grass, arm on his knee, gazing up at the white smears in the azure sky with a smirk playing at his thin lips. Harry imagines his dark hair in the light breeze, the little flecks curling in the breeze, and the sunlight dancing in his eyes. _

"_A turtle? How strange. Its just a cloud." _

_Harry laughs. He lets his gaze wonder away from the cloud, across the grass and the lake, to Tom, who sits a little further up the slope. He is sitting as Harry thought, with expression that Harry imagined, but there is a dustiness to his outline that makes him stand out unnaturally against the mountains behind him. It is the way the sunlight doesn't quite touch him, the faded colour of his image that makes him look like a ghost. _

_It fills Harry with an unexplainable sense of loss. _

_Tom's gaze is on Harry's face. He says nothing, but presumably he sees Harry's forlorn expression because his smile drops. _

"_I wish you were real," Harry says. _

_The smirk is back. _

"_I am real," Tom says. Despite the fact it is not exactly news, it gives Harry an unexpected jolt. It seems strange to think that a real Tom Riddle walked the halls of Hogwarts: lived and laughed and grew up like any other child. Harry wonders whether Tom is still alive – he would be around seventy now. The thought of a wrinkled old Tom is very funny. _

"_I wish you were here," Harry corrects. _

_There is a glint in Tom's eyes. Harry catches just as it disappears and for a moment he thinks it was just an illusion. _

"_Tom?"_

_Some moments, Harry is sure he can read Tom's mind. He feels it: some mix of fascination and desire that is definitely not on Tom's face… a hunger for the sunlight that Harry is bathed in but is untouchable to Tom's ghostly form. _

"_I could be here," Tom says wistfully. It is a statement that perks Harry's interest. _

"_How?" _

A bottle of ink lies on his bedside table. It's dark depths shimmer in the morning light though the window and for a moment, Harry is reminded of Tom's eyes with their unknowable depth.

Blood pounds in his eyes. In a rush of adrenaline and fury, he scoops up the bottle and throws it as hard as he can at the wall. It gives a satisfying smash as it lands and splinters. Ink spurts in all directions, smashing against the wall with the momentum from the throw.

Immediately after though, the anger has receded. Harry is left staring at an inky mess on the wall and shards of glass on the floor, covered with thick liquid that spreads slowly, seeping into the floorboards. The wall drips. In the dustier light of a grey morning, it could have been mistaken for blood.

Feeling sick, Harry turns away.

"Woah."

Turning to the door, he sees Ron looking nervously at the black splash. He is dressed and combined with the lack of people in the dormitory, Harry deduces that he has slept late.

"You alright mate?"

Harry swallows, with difficulty.

"Yeah."

Ron's eyes move from the wall to Harry's face and back again, as if undecided on which has he more pitiful state. Finally, his eyes stop on Harry. He gives a small smile and Harry is struck by the relief that this expression gives him.

"I'm sure there's a spell to clean that up but I've no idea."

"Hermione would know," Harry says. An ashen pallor washes across Ron's cheeks and Harry immediately regrets his words. Hermione is in the hospital wing, petrified…

The guilt that has laid low in his stomach sudden rears up and twists his heart into a painful knot. Hermione… who had worried constantly about Harry these last month or so, even as Harry had pushed her out. Who had nearly died because of Harry's stupidity, saved only by her own ingenuity. She deserved a better friend.

Then the darkness in Ron's expression lifts.

"Yeah, you can ask her when she's up," he says. Oh yes, Harry remembers. Madame Pomphrey had been working on an antidote when they had gone down to the Chamber.

Ron half turns, away from Harry and towards the door.

"Should we go?"

Harry looks back at the dark stain on the wall. It's ominous image is gone. Now that he looks at it properly, the thick consistency of the ink is nothing like blood and in a better light, the colour is all wrong.

"What should we do about that?" Harry asks.

"A prefect will do it," Ron says. "Come on. There might still be breakfast if you're quick."

Breakfast is a quiet affair.

Harry does not have much of an appetite and Ron, who has already eaten, watches him tentatively as he nibbles at a piece of toast. To be honest, he would rather not eat at all, with his stomach in wound in tight knots, but there is little else to do when the silence is so thick. Ron, who usually goes about filling these silences, sits still. Watching. There is little else to do under that gaze, so Harry eats.

It is when Harry is around halfway through his toast that the chatter in the hall quietens, like a blanket has muffled the sound. People turn towards the entrance, stand up from their benches. Harry puts down his piece of toast and cranes his neck to see what has happened.

"It's Hermione," Ron says.

Harry's stomach gives a further, painful twist.

It is Hermione. She is a little paler than usual, her hair a little less wild in comparison to usual, but there is a bright smile shining on her face. She is in her usual pristine uniform, which seems strangely incomplete without the unusually bulky bag slung over her shoulder, but otherwise, she is unchanged; the last few days could easily have been a dream. She scans the crowd, on tiptoes with her chin up to look over the heads of taller students. Besides Harry, Ron stands up. Quickly, Harry does the same.

The chatter across the hall has turned into a wave of whispers. Next to Hermione, Harry sees Justin with a wide grin, Creevy with his camera already in his hands…

When Hermione finds the two, she gives a cheerful wave. The crowd parts as she half walks, half runs towards the pair.

Then the hall is very quiet. Harry's thoughts are loud in comparison, synchronised with Hermione's rapid steps and drumming in Harry's ears: _Sorry for lying to you. Sorry for having a go at you. Sorry for not being able to save you. _

"Oh Harry!"

She opens her arms when she is a pace away from Harry and before Harry knows it, he's been smothered by a tight hug. Hermione's grip is painfully tight and he feels as if he would tip over with how hard she is leaning into him.

He doesn't know who started the clapping. He only realises they are clapping _him _until he sees a whole row of faces staring at him, putting their hands together wildly. The sound builds and builds into a high crescendo – a wild roar of sound that seemed to lift the ceiling and shake the walls. Somewhere to the left, Fred and Gorge are blowing trumpets.

"Erm… Hermione…" he says. His cheeks are burning.

"Oh don't," Hermione snaps.

"What?" Harry responds. Harry cannot see her face and he doesn't quite know how he should be reacting to her angry tone.

Hermione lets go of Harry's neck and leans back enough for him to see her expression. Her eyes show no sign of anger; to Harry's surprise, they are shining with tears.

"I know you're going to apologise. Well, forget it. It wasn't your fault," she whispers. She steps back, away from Harry and beams.

_But it was Harry's fault. _

Harry might have preferred it if Hermione were angry. He had _known _Hermione cared about her friends and targeted his words where it hurt most, with full knowledge of what he had been doing, just as Harry had been fully aware of his actions when he lied to Hermione about his contact with the diary, over and over again. Even when he walked down that corridor, the night she had been attacked, he had not been thinking about her safety, but only about his own feelings, still clinging onto Riddle like a petulant child. He couldn't pretend that Riddle was to blame for everything, because it wasn't true.

He gives a small attempt at a smile. Hermione doesn't seem to notice his trepidation as she turns to Ron and share an awkward hug.

The claps have died down, enough to allow for a normal conversation. Harry is glad that the majority of the attention has shifted away from them and he sits down quickly, sinking deep into the bench. He is quickly surrounded by his classmates, who seem to appear out of nowhere.

"Well, actually, Hermione's been up since last night but we thought it would be a nice surprise…"

"They had a big reveal for the school and lots of partying. By the way, lessons have been cancelled for today…"

"We wanted you to join in but Ron said you were asleep…"

"Must have been really tiring fighting Slytherin's monster!"

Harry nods, shakes hands, takes complements. He is rather shocked at the turn of events but more so at the reception he gets from his peers; they seem convinced that he had sort of battle underground and saved the school with extravagant heroics. However hard Harry tries to convince them of the contrary, they do not seem to understand his intent.

"All I did was stab it with a sword…"

Ron snorts as another round of gasps and claps resound.

At some point Hagrid appears to give Harry a tap on the back which feels more like a sack of rocks have been dropped on his back. While Harry is happy to see Hagrid, he cannot stop the trickle of cold guilt that runs through his veins.

_He suspected Hagrid. _

_He believed Riddle. _

Giving a few more stiff smiles, Harry stands up.

"I'm getting some air," he says. Without waiting for a response, he pushes through the crowd, ignoring the voices that surround him so that they merge into a wall of indistinguishable sound.

It is night again.

_Harry doesn't know who is snatching away his hours. It cannot be Riddle, because Riddle is dead. _

The days must be lengthening because despite the lateness of the hour, there is still a soft glow in the sky which Harry can see in the darkness of his dormitory with all the candles out. He cannot see any stars and although there is a moon hanging low on the horizon, it is faded in colour. It is funny, how the most beautiful things can only be seen in true darkness.

There is a spot on his bed-side table where the bottle of ink used to be. It's emptiness is heavier before, the air around it seeming to thicken and darken. Harry eyes the spot cautiously as he moves over to his bed; while he knows there is nothing special about a particular spot, he cannot tear his gaze away from it. There is a nagging temptation in his gut to get out another pot of ink and place it there but he puts aside the thought firmly.

Harry sits on his bed, feat dangling off of the edge. If he stretches his toes, he can just about reach the wooden floorboards, feel their cool touch on his bare feet. Without a diary to write in, there evening seems premature. Harry almost regrets giving the diary to Malfoy senior – just feeling the crinkled parchment under his fingers would have been comforting – but again, he shuts away the thought with an angry mental shove.

Leaning back onto his bed, Harry curls into a ball. He clutches his knee tightly, pressing it against his chest. The ache has returned, more intense than ever, a yearning hole in his chest that refuses to abate. It is more than a physical pain. Despite being in his own bed, Harry feels lost. Despite being able to hear his dormmates downstairs, he feels alone.

It feels like hours before Harry drifts off into an uncomfortable sleep.

"_I could be here," Tom says, staring at the azure sky, almost melting into its vast transparency. They watch a flock of birds, playing under the clouds; swooping, diving, calling like a single pulsing entity that floats in the sky. His eyes do not reflect sunlight but they shine in their own right and Harry marvels at them. _

_Tom's ambition reaches the stars. _

"_How?" Harry asks, eager to share in Tom's dream, to be part of his plan. _

_Tilting his head slightly, Tom gives him a look. There is a smile on his lips and although his posture is casual, there is a tension about him. Suddenly Harry is nervous, as if a snake he has just been admiring has turned to face him, mouth baring fangs. _

"_You'll know. Soon."_

Harry emerges from a dream with a gasp.

Sweat is heavy on his brow. The dull flickers of a dream are still heavy in his mind, although they are slipping fast. What had that been? He tries to remember the dream. He gasps at the felling of warmth and sunlight but it runs like sand through his fingers; the more he tries to scoop it up, the faster it slips away.

'_Comfortable?'_

He shivers.

It is warm outside. The grass is growing with rigour now that the frost has lifted, with green shoot pushing upwards in a bed of leaves that is soft under Harry's feet. Between them are the first hints of summer blooms; some with tall green shoots with little scatterings of grey at the top, others low against the ground with slim bulbs on the top. Everything on the ground is damp – damp and green with the sodden leaves hanging low.

Further up the banks of the grounds, a line of trees stands solemnly. Despite the brighter light, the forbidden forest has not lost its gloom with its densely packed trunks filled with murky shadow. The tree tops swaying softly in a breeze that is unfelt on the ground and a few birds circle the highest branches, one or two breaking off and diving down, only to be replaced by another pair.

Harry watches the birds. A flash of familiarity passes over him, but it is gone quickly.

His gaze wonders over to the left, in the general direction of the lake. There is a person standing on one of the ridges that sculpt the school grounds and even though the black surface of the lake is mostly hidden from Harry's view, he knows that the view from that spot mesmerising. Their long hair is a brilliant red, which catches the light as it floats in the wind. Harry cannot see their face, but he only knows one red-head with hair like this.

What could Ginny be thinking, he wonders, as she looks over the lake alone.

Harry's insides are suddenly cold. He swallows down the bile that he can taste clinging to the back of his throat and looks away.

The last few weeks of term go quickly.

Exams are cancelled, to Ron's relief and Hermione's dismay. Lessons progress, then as what would have been revision season comes around, stop progressing, for students are much less motivated to revise when there is nothing to revise for.

Days turn to weeks, then a month and suddenly the end of the year is upon them.

As the scenery outside the Hogwarts express shifts slowly from pine forest to fields, Harry watches solemnly from the window. The sun is out and high in the blue sky. It is a hot day and so they have left a window open, letting the wind whistle through the carriage, filling it with the loud rattle of the wheels on the tracks, as well as the cooler air. Harry does not mind the noise – he is not really in the mood for conversation anyway.

Today, he is going back to the Dursleys.

He knows he should be grateful for the months he has at Hogwarts but even then, the prospect of a summer holidays at Private Drive throws a thin blanket of gloom over his mood.

Riddle had hated the Dursleys. Perhaps Harry would not have been so conscious of his own anger if Riddle had not mirrored it so well. Harry's fingers curl into fists, tightening until his fingernails are digging into his palm, the sharp pain anchoring him to reality.

He had _tried. _

A week or so before the holidays he had approached Professor McGonagall.

"Professor…"

Harry remembers his uncertainty about his request. It had seemed like a perfectly reasonable one when he contemplated it beforehand but when the words were actually forming, he had felt as if he had been abruptly thrown out into an open ocean.

"Yes, Mr Potter?" Professor McGonagall had asked, patiently.

"I was wondering if… erm… I could stay at Hogwarts over the summer." Harry had spoken very fast, , as if the blow of rejection would be lessened if he got over it quickly. Professor McGonagall had looked taken aback for a second, before her expression had knit itself into a cool, professional outlook.

"You live with your relatives, don't you?"

Had she seen the bitterness in his eyes? Remembered how he never wanted to return for the holidays? Harry wonders if he had imagined the tenderness in her voice, superimposed his hopes onto a neutral canvas.

"Is there a particular reason you wish to stay over the summer?"

"No."

_Riddle was very good at that particular 'no' too. _

Professor McGonagall had calmly explained that Hogwarts did not facilitate students over the summer, that everyone would have to go back to their parents or guardians until next year…

"Yes, but there have been exceptions, haven't there? For special circumstances."

Harry distinctly remembers the surprise on the elderly professor's face. He supposes someone who has been in Hogwarts for so long wouldn't expect a response like that – most people weren't old enough to remember such an event. Not that Harry is old enough either. He just happened to have source of information that bridged those long years.

_It was in 1943, the summer of the first opening of the Chamber of Secrets. _

Professor McGonagall had promised to refer it to the headmaster.

"Don't get your hopes up too high," she had said. Harry had tried not to. He had still been disappointed when the answer had been no.

Harry has no more tears of frustration. He stares at the window plane as the fields of sheep fly past, listening to the sound of the train chugging forwards, his eyes dry to the point they are itching. Uninvited, a memory of Riddle's face drifts into his mind: his angry sneer, his twisted words… he would have found Harry's plight amusing. Now, more than ever, Harry despises the boy who lifted his hopes to the sky and laughed as he crashed to the ground.

* * *

**They always start summer holidays when the hottest months are over :/**

**Thank you for reading. Please leave a review! **


	6. 2-2 Holiday

**A/N: It was 34 degrees Celsius today. Not quite the 40+ of Cairo, but it was hot. Well, I don't think I've done this part justice but here it is. **

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**Holiday**

Tom is still in his dreams.

They used to have conversations – at first simply reciting what they had said by text in person, Tom's, slowly delving off into small talk which wouldn't have been possible with the slow pace of writing, and finally long conversations that blurred the line between dream and reality. Although the dreams were never mentioned explicitly in text, Tom would drop comments… inconspicuous in themselves… that suggested dream-Tom wasn't just a figment of Harry's imagination. In the end Harry couldn't differentiate between talking to Tom and writing to Tom, couldn't untangle the dream from the reality.

But Tom is dead. And the dreams are still there.

Harry tries to convince himself that dream-Tom was a figment of his imagination after all.

_Hello Tom. _

_Hello Harry. How was your day today?_

_Awful. I stirred a sleeping draught anticlockwise instead of clockwise. _

_Amusement. Harry imagines a smile that tugs at Tom's lips, a warm sparkle in his dark eyes. _

_I imagine it was quite dramatic. _

_Oh yeah. You should have seen Snape's reaction! It was like he'd eaten a rotten egg! He took loads of points off Gryffindor though. _

_That is quite unfair. You made an honest mistake. _

_Yeah, but you know Snape. He hates me. _

_Have you considered that there may be a reason for Professor Snape's bias against you?_

_Of course I have! I don't know what though. Maybe its Malfoy. Malfoy hates me and Snape likes Malfoy. _

_Malfoy would be a valuable asset if you got over your grudge against him. He's from a rich and powerful family. _

_Doesn't change the fact he's annoying, petty and mean. _

_Disappointment? No. Amazement? Annoyance? Acceptance? Some strange mix of all of them. It brings a grin to Harry's face. Tom is so easy to wind up. _

_Anyhow, I think it is unlikely that Malfoy is the root of your problem. You have suggested that Snape showed dislike towards you before Malfoy had a chance to talk to him. _

_I suppose. _

_It seems he had a prejudice against you, perhaps in a similar way to how Professor Dumbledore judged me before we had met. People form prejudices very easily, unfortunately. _

_A frown forms on Harry's face. _

_I wish it wasn't like that. _

_I do too, Harry. However, there is nothing we can do about the unfairness of life. _

_You tried! You went to Professor Dippet and asked if you could stay at Hogwarts. _

_I don't understand how this is relev_

_You didn't like your life, did you? In the orphanage. _

_Tom's silence speaks volumes. _

_You don't say much about the orphanage. _

_It isn't a pleasant memory to dwell on. _

_But you're wrong about Professor Dumbledore; he's not like Snape at all. He doesn't pick on students just because they're there. _

_A flash of anger – real anger – which takes Harry aback because Tom shows it so rarely. _

_Tom? Sorry. I know it's a point of cont contan_

_Contention _

_Yeah, a point of contention. _

_Harry swallows and gives himself a second to think before. He dips his quill bank into the inkpot and carefully taps off the excess ink with the glass rim. _

_Can we agree to disagree?_

_For now. _

Tom's replies had always been more cryptic than they should have been, skirting on the edges of answer a question while holding back information. Harry rewinds these conversations over and over again, wondering each time why he did not see betrayal sooner.

Two weeks into the holidays, Harry receives a letter from Ron, informing him that they Weasley's had won a prize from the Daily Prophet and planned to go to Egypt. Harry is happy for him but even happier at the single line at the bottom of the letter, in a messy scrawl that is smudged near the edges.

_You're invited!_

He reads the line over and over again, just to check he had read it correctly. It doesn't say exactly what he is invited too… he hardly dared believe the Weasley's wanted him to come to Egypt… but as he stares at the letter it slowly dawned on him that this is probably the case. Harry pinches himself, to check that he is not dreaming. The letter remains sat in his hands. It is heavy. The thick parchment is soaked full of words.

Harry scrambles to write a reply. The next few days are agony; every opportunity he gets the letter out again, carefully reads the words to check he hasn't misinterpreted anything, gnawing at his fingernails as he waits at the window for a response.

It is a relief when Hermione's letter arrives.

_I heard you're going to Egypt with Ron. I do hope you enjoy it. _

Harry grins so hard that his cheeks start to hurt.

Three days pass before the Weasley's make an appearance, this time through the fireplace instead of a flying car. The Dursley's are less than impressed and while Harry knows their anger is inversely proportional to any hopes of signing his Hogsmeade form, he laughs at the sight of Dudley squealing as he runs out of the room. His aunt seems content enough to get rid of Harry for the remainder of the holidays, once Mr Weasley promises to fix her fireplace.

The Barrow has not changed much since last year. Perhaps it is tidier, with the numerous pots and pans stowed away, the shelves cleared of its previous clutter. Only the living room is more cluttered than before, littered with several large trunks that are overflowing with clothes, books and what appears to be a pair of mini trumpets, half hidden among the socks.

As soon she spots Harry, Mrs Weasley turns away from the clothes that are folding themselves and gives Harry a tight hug.

"Oh Harry, I'm so glad you can come," she says, stepping away with a beaming smile. She looks over his shoulder.

"Percy, do you _need _another book in there?"

Harry turns to see Percy almost drop a tome, so large he has to use both hands to hang onto it. He stumbles and his glasses slip down his nose.

"I'm taking some out," he says. He gives his nose an awkward crinkle, trying to push his glasses up when he has no hands available. Within a few seconds, he gives up, walks over the other trunks tentatively until he is by one of the bulkier ones in the centre, where he sets down the book carefully. He picks out several books from the pack and carefully places the larger book in the hole that is left.

"Thank you for having me," Harry says to Mrs Weasley. His gratitude fills him like a bubble, so deep he doesn't think a million words can convey them.

"Don't worry about it dear," Mrs Weasley says.

Footsteps resound across the room, in the direction of the stairs. Ron pokes his head over the banisters, a large grin on his face.

"Harry!"

"Hi, Ron," Harry replies. Ron bounds down the remaining few steps and runs across the room, disregarding Mrs Weasley's sharp warning, coming to a stop in front of Harry.

"It's so cool that you can come too! Can you believe it?! We're going to _Egypt_!"

He says this very fast, a skill Harry had always attributed to Hermione instead of Ron. However Harry can understand his excitement – he feels it too, bringing a grin to his lips. Egypt. Harry has never been and the only knowledge he has is a term on Ancient Egypt at primary school where they learnt about Pyramids and Pharaohs… he can hardly imagine what it must be like to see those giant structures up close.

There is knock on the door. Mrs Weasley glances at the clock on the wall.

"Ah, that's Arthur," she says.

Mr Weasley walks in, still trying to shake a frown off of his face.

"…and I told them that the fireplace would be easy to fix but they were very distressed… hello again, Harry."

"Thank you," Harry says. Mr Weasley shrugs with a _don't worry about it_.

"Are we ready?" Mr Weasley says, eyeing the open trunks. "International portkeys are quite annoying to reschedule if you miss them… Is Ginny out of her room yet?"

The next few hours is a whirlwind, in part literally. It is Harry's first time on holiday, his first time going abroad and his first time using a portkey (the last being the least enjoyable).

When the swirling colours around him settle, the first thing that hits him is the heat. It swoops down on him with the rays of a glaring sun and with his first breath of foreign air, it burns the back of his throat. The sand underneath his arm which had been thrust out to stop his fall is plunged into a fist full of yellowing grass which is coarse under his fingertips. Up ahead is a rectangular building of reddish stone which thrusts out impressively against a deep blue sky; the rows of windows each topped with a stone arch shine an iridescent hue.

"Welcome to Cairo."

A figure is waiting for them under the shade of a palm tree. Although Harry has never seen Bill Weasley before but the pale face, lean silhouette and red hair (though this has faded closer to a blond, possibly due to the sun) makes him immediately recognisable. His long hair is pulled up into a loose pony tail and there is a lopsided grin on his face which gives the impression of a carefree individual.

Harry gets up a little shakily but with a huge grin on his face nonetheless. He is somewhat relieved to see that he is not the only one has failed to land on his feet.

"Oh Bill!" Mrs Weasley says before rushing forward and giving her son a tight hug. "How have you been?"

Bill laughs.

"Living the dream," he says.

Once they've dropped their bags off at the hotel, Bill wastes no time in showing them around. There is a wizarding high street; it's bustling atmosphere is reminiscent of Diagon Alley but with a definitive hint of something completely different, with sandy coloured buildings bursting with traders and merchants selling charmed rugs, cursed amulets, bits of pyramid with ancient wards… Bill pushes them forward as Ron leans towards an 'authentic Erumpent Horn buy NOW and get a Fwooper Feather FREE!'.

"It's probably fake," he says. "Even if it was real, you wouldn't want to buy it."

In the evening, Bill takes them to a pyramid.

"We've cleared all the dangerous curses but if you touch anything, then I can't be responsible for your wellbeing," he says with a cheeky grin.

To everyone's relief, it is cooler inside the pyramid. The walls glow a soft yellow in the wandlight, textured with ridges and dips that melt into darkness but smooth, as though sculpted out of half melted wax. There footsteps echo in the thin corridor they go down in single file and their breathing can clearly be heard in the heavy silence – it is as if the air is compressed with the weight of the rocks above them, seemingly still despite the light breeze that runs down the passageway.

They arrive at a wider chamber and pause to look at the painted figures on the wall; white clad figures going about various tasks; eating, writing, singing, fighting… Occasionally one looks up at the party and scrawls fiercely. Perhaps due to how faded they are, the figures on the walls are completely silent, unlike the portraits at Hogwarts; Harry is secretly glad. The looks that are thrown at them in the rare moments when their presence is acknowledges give him the impression that it wouldn't be a pleasant chat.

Harry pauses at a painting of a group of people with heads of various animals standing around a tall set of scales.

"That's an image of the afterlife," Bill's voice comes from behind.

"Afterlife?"

Harry's gaze follows Bills finger to a boat with another figure with the head of an animal, to a crowd of people around a body on an ornate stand, poking it with sharp implements.

"Ancient Egyptian wizards were really into the soul," Bill explains. "They developed all sorts of rituals surrounding it… its fascinating stuff."

"What sort of stuff?" George asks, visibly perked at the prospect of strange rituals. Harry looks behind and sees that almost all the Weasley family is forming a half-circle behind him to listen to Bill's explanation.

Bill laughs.

"Sustaining the soul after death, helping the soul move onto the afterlife, stuff like that."

"Why would you need to sustain a soul after death? It's not like ghosts _eat _anything," Ron interjects. He wrinkles his nose, perhaps remembering the Death Day party they had attended at Hogwarts during first year. Harry sympathises. The smell is a distant memory, faded with time, but he would not hasten to experience it again.

Bill explains

"I'm not actually sure about the details – it's not my area of expertise – but when it comes to curses, it's useful to know the cultures you're working with… interestingly, the soul comes up quite often. For example there's an old belief that souls can be trapped in objects like mirrors or dolls…"

_Or a Diary. _

Something cold trickles down Harry's neck. The smile melts off of his face.

"Bill," Mrs Weasley interjects sharply. Bill stutters to a stop, evidently bemused. Even Mrs Weasley herself seems unsure how to follow up.

"Why don't you talk about these paintings?" she says uncertainly, pointing to a man on a chariot to her left.

There is a small figure clutching her skirt so that Mrs Weasley's shadow shrouds her from sight. It takes a second for Harry to realise it is Ginny, almost hiding behind her mother.

Darkness comes suddenly with the unexpected arrival of night. Harry cannot shake off the oddness of how quickly the sun dips below the horizon in a beautiful red sunset, before recalling that they are several time zones ahead. Still, in Surrey the sun had been up much longer, the glimmer of a low sun lasting long into the evening. The air cools significantly. Although the glimmering lights of the city remain, they obscure the stars, making it seem darker than it is.

Under candlelight, Harry and Ron spend the rest of their time playing chess. Naturally, Harry is losing, even though he has improved significantly since his first game in First Year. Ron grins as he corners Harry's king between his own pawns.

"You should always leave an escape route open," he says.

"Er… okay," Harry says, as his king is dragged off the board looking crumpled in defeat.

"What do you want to do next?" Ron asks. Harry shrugs.

"You choose."

Ron looks around the room for a second but there doesn't seem to be anything that catches his second. Other than the two of them, only Percy is present, holding open his thick book with both hands as he reads by the fireplace.

"I think Fred bought a pack of Exploding Snap," Ron says. "Give me a sec."

He leaves the room and without him, there is an empty quality to the atmosphere. Harry does not have much to do, other than fidget.

"Hello Ginny," Percy says. Harry looks up to see the ginger girl walk in. She starts at the voice.

"Have you seen my hairbrush?" she asks Percy.

"I think it's in the burgundy trunk." Percy indicates. He studies Ginny through his glasses, a gentle expression on his face "Are you alright?"

Ginny nods.

She crosses the room in silence, rummages around the aforementioned trunk before fishing out a hairbrush. She turns around and starts making her way back, ignoring Harry's gaze fixed on her figure.

"Erm, Ginny," Harry says, as she walks past, trying to keep his voice light.

Ginny looks to him. They are close – Harry doesn't think they've ever been this close – and he can see the light glimmering in her brown eyes.

"You look like him," she whispers.

They react together; her mouth immediately clamps shut, eyes wide and terrified, he steps back with the force of a blow, air knocked out of his stomach. He opens his mouth, closes it again as his words abandon him and he recognises the whirl of his thoughts as a panic reaction. Ginny does not wait for him to recover; she turns and runs out of the room.

"Ginny!" Percy calls after her. There is no response.

He glances back at Harry with an apologetic sort of smile.

"It's okay," he says. "She's been doing this a lot since…" He swallows and falls silent.

_You look like him. _

_Strange similarities…_

_We even look something alike._

Harry sleeps uneasily that night.

The rest of their time in Egypt is the best experience Harry has ever had. He enjoys every moment of it (_almost),_ bathed in sunlight (_hiding from the dark), _talking to the Weasley family _(except Ginny, who is woefully silent), _the days so stuffed with fun that he falls asleep as soon as they return to the hotel, exhausted (_yet his nights are not without dreams). _He enjoys everything – the food, the sights, even the searing heat (_reminds him where he is in the morning, after memories of cold Chambers). _

It seems too good to be real.

_Why am I here? _Harry sometimes thinks, watching the reeds drift past on a Nile cruise, or staring up at a stone sphinx outside another pyramid.

It is Ron who drops the clues.

"When we won the Daily Prophet prize, Dumbledore suggested you would benefit from a trip abroad… Mum was totally smitten with the idea, of course."

Harry doesn't know what to think about that.

Bill is not with them every day, but he takes every opportunity to take them to an array of previously cursed buildings; lots of pyramids of course, but temples and palaces too, even a tiny shack half-buried in sand which apparently belonged to an old wizarding family. _Why did he do that? _Harry thinks, as he stares at deformed skeletons or intricate sets of runes carved into stone.

There is nobody to answer that question.

Time flies by.

Without warning the four weeks are over and it is time to go home.

Ron is unnaturally cheerful for the whole trip back. He talks about Quidditch, apparently trying to brighten Harry's mood. When Harry responds half-heartedly, unabashed, he moves onto a fast paced rant about chess tactics. When he realises that Harry can't even half-follow what he is saying, because even when he is concentrating, Harry cannot conjure up a decent chessboard in his head and remember where all the pieces are, he moves onto the weather.

"So Harry, time to erm… go back home," Mr Weasley says. His face is contorted into a strange mixture of an enthusiastic smile and the grimace of someone who has swallowed something sour.

"I don't like the Dursley's either," Harry says and he looks much relieved.

"Are we going by floo?"

"No, we'll use muggle transport. It appears we made a bad impression last time…"

"It's impossible to make anything but a bad impression with the Dursleys," Harry says firmly. Mr Weasley takes taken aback for a second. He opens his mouth, perhaps to make a comment, but then shuts it again uneasily.

"If you need anything, just owl Ron," Mr Weasley says. Harry nods in affirmation.

Ron looks at Harry. Harry gives a smile back.

"Well, err… see you at King's Cross!" Ron says.

"Yeah," Harry says.

It's not the most dramatic of departures, but that, Harry thinks, is not necessary. He doesn't want it to feel like a goodbye.

Aunt Petunia evidently isn't happy to see Harry on the doorstep, laden with a trunk full of new textbooks and an owl cage, and for a second, Harry wonders if she would just slam the door on him. However she allows him back into the house, looking as if she has smelt something bad and pointedly ignoring Mr Weasley who stands behind Harry nervously. She immediately slam the door on Mr Weasley and grabs Harry's trunk before he can protest.

"Go to your room, now!" she barks.

Harry complains but even before he starts he knows it is no use – the tight line of Aunt Petunia's lips are grim and her eyes are shards of ice.

"Quiet! You'll wake Diddykins," she hisses at him as she half drags him up the stairs with a tight grip on his arm. Internally, Harry thinks that if his whale of a cousin isn't up already then he deserves to be woken because morning laziness could only be detrimental for his failing health, but he keeps the thought to himself.

The smallest bedroom hasn't changed during Harry's absence. There is a little more dust in the air, spinning lazy circles in the drought from the door and shining in the low angled sunlight from the window, and there is a mustier smell in the air; while most of Dudley's old possessions has been cleared out, what was left is good at collecting particulates. Harry crosses over to the window and opens it wide, instantly relieved at the fresh breeze that runs past him.

Harry then checks the loose floorboard, relieved to see that the few textbooks he had left behind are still safely stored there. It is not a happy collection – History of Magic, Lockhart's books, first year textbooks – but it is better than nothing. There are a few letters too: his Hogwarts letter. Ron's invitation, Hermione's letter. They bring a bubble of warmth to his chest but at the same time, Harry is painfully aware that all of his birthday well-wishing's are in his trunk, locked in the cupboard under the stairs.

It is quiet in the house. Harry used to like it quiet. Quiet meant peace - a break from chores or Dudley's insistent attention – but now, the silence is an oppressing blanket that crushes him in from all sides. The weeks until Hogwarts seem painfully long.

* * *

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	7. 2-3 Fear

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* * *

**Fear**

_Hello Tom_

_Hello Harry. How are you today?_

_Someone tried to hex me on the way to Herbology._

_Did they succeed?_

_I tripped over the stairs. _

_It could have been worse. _

_They laughed at me. _

_Did you retaliate?_

_No! Of course not… but… _

_Harry pauses because he doesn't know whether he wants to make this revelation. He takes in a small breath in and out, composes himself, then continues the sentence. _

_I wanted to. _

_He remembers the anger curling in his stomach, unlike anything he had felt before – no, that is a lie. It is an unsettling feeling, one locked in distant memories, but not unfamiliar; it is the twist of his insides as his primary school teacher mocked him in front of the class, just before her hair turned blue. It is the flash of some foreign emotion that ran through him when Dudley knocked him aside… just as the glass in front of him vanished… coming and going so fast he only recognised the emotion as anger afterwards. _

_I wanted to hurt them. _

_And make them fear you? Make them see you for what you are? Make sure they could never hurt you again? _

_Tom makes it sound very dramatic and Harry shifts uncomfortably. Tom seems to read his mind. _

_That isn't anything to be ashamed of. _

_Hurting people is bad. _

_That's what people say when they're afraid of being hurt, even if they've done something to deserve it. _

_I don't think so, Tom. I think hurting people is bad. _

_If Tom wasn't a Diary, Harry was sure he could have heard him sigh. Near the beginning of their conversations, Tom's more violent outbursts had scared Harry, however now that he was more familiar with him, Harry had come to understand Tom's frustration. He had been lonely – without good friends like Ron and Hermione – and trying to make his way in a world that seemed to despise him._

_Tom is quick to compose himself, to sooth over his cracks with kind words. _

_Your morals are well aligned with the accepted norms of society. You acted in a restrained manner that would have been commended by any professor, had the scene been witnessed._

_Thank you. _

_He knows Tom is only saying this to please him but Harry finds comfort in those words nonetheless. _

_There is a pause. _

_But Harry, not everyone plays the game on your terms. _

_Harry knows this. He has seen this in Dudley, in Malfoy. Harry himself has learnt that rules are to be bent, words to be twisted and used… but Harry still holds by his steady anchor of righteousness because otherwise everyone would decent into Voldemort's crazy world, whose words still resound in Harry's mind like a terrible curse. _There is no such thing as good or evil.

_If only he could make Tom see that. _

Harry is most definitely glad that he had gone off with the Weasleys when he learns that Aunt Marge had visited in his absence. If Aunt Marge hadn't existed, he wouldn't have thought it even possible to hate someone more than the Dursley's – at least they acted as if he didn't exist, rather than a curious specimen to poke and prod with nasty insults.

Even without Aunt Marge, it is difficult sometimes, to keep control.

He had asked them to sign his Hogsmeade permission form. They refused. He threatened to do something freakish in front of the neighbours. They were stubborn.

"_Accidents happen." A smile, polite. His head tilted just so. Words sweet. _

It is not like the Dursleys are _doing _anything now. They seem too scared Harry will bite their heads off.

_A glass shatters behind him. It is not particularly dramatic and with enough imagination, it could have been dismissed as a coincidence… but Uncle Vernon had never been good at being imaginative. _

Last year had been like this too, Harry recalls, with an air of barely concealed tension pulling the house taunt. Yet there is something different about their attitude this time. Perhaps it is how Uncle Vernon is avoiding him rather than just ignoring him, how Aunt Petunia has developed a nervous shaking whenever Harry is in the same room. It is sickening.

"_Don't you dare threaten my family!" _

_He turns on her, eyes cold. She flinches under his gaze and in that moment, Harry feels the exhilaration of control. He wants to push. Push until she toppled and broke, until she shattered into unbreakable pieces. He wanted to destroy her for every moment of embarrassment she had brought down on him: every bruise, every tear, every burning lie she had told him about his heritage. He wanted her to feel guilt, shame, to feel uncomfortable in her own skin. _

_A rabbit, hanging from the rafters, spinning in slow circles as its empty eyes glittered… _

Even though Harry heads towards Hogwarts with a signed permission form, the victory is subdued by the nervous buzz in his stomach; a wretched mixture of fear and guilt. There is no Ron or Hermione to turn to because Harry is afraid, even of his closest friends, and hates himself all the more for it. Perhaps Ginny, because Ginny saw it before he had… the shadow of a stranger in his mannerisms… but Ginny too is terrified at the sight of him and Harry has brought enough sorrow into her life as it is.

"_Am I different from Voldemort?"_

He is in Gryffindor, not Slytherin. For all their similarities, Harry holds onto this difference like a talisman, as if it could defend him from the devil.

"_Yes. You are as different as one can be." _

_I am different. I am different. I am different. _He chants it like a prayer. He almost convinces himself it is true.

Then, with perfect timing, the train stops, the lights go out, and Harry wonders if he has accidently summoned a demon.

The chill is piercing. It grips the carriage, filling each inky crevice; the shadows seemed to have grown in the few minutes thy had been sat, tentative breaths and frozen postures.

Suddenly the silence is punctuated by a deep, rattling breath. The general direction of the sound is from the corridor outside the closed compartment door, but the sound is all around, echoing sullenly. There is a moment of further bated breaths, tensions rising to a perfect maximum as the compartment door slides open and a hand sticks through – a terrible rotten thing which looks as though it should not be in this world, let alone opening doors.

The black cloak showing nothing beneath the hood except yet more darkness is not griotique in itself but there is _something _about the chilliness that surrounded it that is foul. It is an atmosphere that demands reaction. Repulsion. A single, trickling chill goes down Harry's back.

There is screaming somewhere far away: a piercing, wretched scream of a dying soul.

A mist hangs over the compartment; a blur that clings over the details and smears out the edges. The black cloak has turned slightly, it's head now directed towards Harry.

_Falling. _

Ripped to shreds. Wrenched from his host. _Dying. _

Somebody is screaming. There is a woman, whose red hair spun in a halo as she drops to the floor… Red, sprawled against the cold stone. A wand, a book, a flash of green…

The professor had stood up, wand in hand. There are words but they are lost to Harry – distorted beyond recognition and lost in the rampant echoes that tear through his mind.

He is in the Chamber, he is in a house, he is in a train – he feels as though he is a leaf on the wind, blown this way and that, being torn apart as outside forces pull him this way and that. He remembers this moment of perfect balance: when they are two and one, facing each other and seeing each other through both pairs of eyes. Hearts beating together, thoughts merged into one…

Then one is falling, the other is flying… Or one is dying and the other is screaming…

_Falling… _

_Always falling… _

A pinprick of light bursts into life. It grows and grows until it overtakes Harry's vision, then moves… its presence stronger than a ball of fire but as light as a gush of wind, chasing away the darkness with its radiance. The heavy weight on Harry's chest is released and he inhales sharply… he hadn't even realised his breathing had stilled until his vision swims with oxygen deprivation.

The other occupants of the carriage look shaken but none of them appear to have reacted as strongly as Harry.

"Did you hear that?" he asks. Empty stares. Pairs of eyes, devoid of meaning… Harry feels trapped inside a box, unable to understand anything around him.

"Hear what?"

"There was screaming," Harry says quietly, more to himself than anything. Yet nothing makes sense, because recognition tugs at the voice still ringing in his ears, that heart wrenching sound which creeps into his nightmares. He closes his eyes, trying to pick up the pieces of his thoughts and stitch them together.

_A Diary. A wand. _

_Screaming. _

The tired looking professor – Professor Lupin, Harry recalls – returns to the carriage with his wand out. He looks at Harry, gives a reassuring smile, before reaching for his trunk. A few seconds of searching and he finds what he is looking for - a bar of chocolate which he hands to Harry.

"Have some chocolate," he says. "It will help."

Harry accepts it warily.

_An incantation. A flash of green. _

_Screaming. _

The chocolate is not very sweet when it first touches his tongue but it melts quickly and floods his mouth with the rich texture. Chewing reveals the fruitier undertones, mixed with the deep flavour of chocolate, and with it, Harry feels warmth returning to his fingers. The mist in his mind also clears, freeing Harry of its cold grip.

"Oh," he mutters.

Of course he recognises the screaming. It is his last memory of Tom Riddle, as the green light ripped his life apart.

The sound returns to him in the most unlikely of places, playing like a broken recorder in the back of his mind. Sometimes it is far away, or muffled as if through a wall. Other times it is startling like close, causing an ice-like shiver run down Harry's spine.

He is a thirty or so feet above the ground, so small he can only see the few bystanders as small smudges of black, and the blue sky surrounds him. The wind whips his face, runs across his hair, as Harry swivels his broom around full circle. Despite it being a short practice, slotted in after dinner last minute, Wood has let out a practice snitch, with confidence that Harry can catch it before bed. Harry too shares that confidence, even in his first flight of the year. He has never missed the snitch before, unless in a coma in the hospital wing.

His eyes scan the air below him, in systematic circles, adjusting his focus so that he dissects each layer of air to the ground. It is quite far to the ground, Harry thinks. If he fell from this height without magic, he would probably die.

There are butterflies in Harry's stomach but he pushes them down, refocusing on the task ahead of him. The practice snitch is not as fast as the real one, having been used so many times that its wings are slightly bent, but it is still difficult to make out.

_Falling. _

Harry's head feels light, contrary to a dead weight which has just settled on his shoulders. His Nimbus dips down slightly, feeling the subtle change in his grip, and while Harry is quick to adjust, he still feels the characteristic swoop in his stomach of freefall.

_Screaming. _

It is loud today and Harry can pick out the fear in the sound, mixed with the agony. _Focus, _he thinks, but his mind is already slipping into panic.

Too high. He is too high for comfort, which is ridiculous because Harry has never been afraid of heights – not when he ended up on a school roof in primary school, not on any broomstick where he was always the one who pushed the upwards limit, reaching for the clouds until his fingers were numb with cold. Yet today, Harry cannot deny the fear which grips him; a fear of falling which throws his balance off.

In his peripheral vision, he spots a flash of gold. It is below him, at this distance moving quite slowly across the pitch were the chasers are practicing passes.

Harry angles his broom down, carefully selecting his trajectory for maximum efficiency. It is not just a straightforward calculation of velocities because experience tells him that the snitch will change direction at least once during his decent, so he picks out the route most easiest for adjusting course. It is not a conscious calculation – most of the time Harry doesn't have time to think before diving.

The weightlessness of his stomach is brief, quickly replaced by the accelerating force of his broom pushing him backwards. He leans forward to compensate, aim steady for the gold which grows in his vision. The ground approaches quickly.

_Falling. _

His grip loosens just as the snitch darts in a different direction. So shocked, Harry misses his opportunity to chase it and continues diving downwards. The ground is approaching very quickly.

"_HARRY!"_

The scream across the pitch comes just in time for Harry to jerk the broom handle up. He decelerates rapidly, his path curling forward as he does so, but not fast enough. With a shudder through his legs, he lands, stumbles and falls into the soft grass.

Giving a small groan, Harry rolls over to look at the blue sky above him. It is not clear, with a soft mist of white hanging over it, lightening the colour to a soft off-white. A few seconds later he has recovered his breath enough to stand up and he does so shakily. By then, Wood has landed.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

Harry looks down at his hands, slick with mud, and swallows.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm alright."

Wood looks at him over with a worried frown on his face. The other team members have also landed and they look to Harry with inquisitive glances.

"You're pale," he says.

"I'm fine," Harry reiterates, with more force than required. Yet even as he says it, he knows it is not true, because that was a dive so simple he _should not _have messed up.

"Look. Let's call it a day," Wood says.

"I haven't caught the snitch!" Harry counters.

"I'll catch it," Wood replies. "It's a practice one, so it won't be too difficult."

If anything, that makes Harry feel worse.

Afterwards, Quidditch descends into a nightmare. Every time Harry flies he remembers the sensation of falling… then of falling and being ripped apart and dying… and his concentration slips at random. It is alright when he is high up and can correct his mistakes smoothly. It is less alright in the thicket of the action in the lower part of the pitch, where he nearly sends Fred flying off his broom in a shoddy turn.

"I'm sorry," Harry mutters at the end of every practice. At first Wood waves it off with a _you'll do better next time, _but as the days pile on, his words are saturated with worry. They will not do well in the league this year with Harry flying like this.

"Everyone has lows," George says. "You'll get over it."

But in the following week, Harry doesn't get over it – if anything, it gets worse, to the point Harry can't even hold his broom without feeling sick. He misses practice. To his dismay, Wood doesn't even tell him off badly.

"I understand," Wood says, as Harry apologises profoundly, but Harry can hear the bitterness in his voice.

The whole Gryffindor team is understanding and supportive but that does not stop the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match being on their doorstep. A week beforehand, Wood comes up to Harry with a wary expression on his face, his whole body tense as if expecting a storm. Slowly, carefully, as if defusing a bomb, he suggests Harry sit out of the first game. Harry fights back tears.

"I can do this!" he says. "I'm the best flyer in the team!"

It's not arrogance, it's fact. Wood just looks at him neutrally.

"I know you are but you're having a tough time, and I don't want to force you to do something you struggle with."

Harry thinks life could not get worse, until Malfoy hears the news. He catches him outside of a transfigurations lesson, surrounded as usual by a tight knot of comrades.

"Hey, hey Potter!"

Doing his best to ignore him, Harry keeps walking. There is only one reason Malfoy would sound so gleeful and Harry does not need someone rubbing salt into his wounds. Malfoy is persistent, the smug smile on his thin lips stretched wide.

"I heard you're too _demented _to play this month! Do you want a free trip to St Mungo's? Though even they might have a hard time fixing that scar head of yours." Laughter rises from the group of Slytherins but it is not a joyful sound. More like a barrage of stones.

Beside him, Hermione turns around sharply, eyes full of fire.

"Just because the only chance you have of winning a Quidditch match is if _everyone _on the Gryffindor team retires, doesn't mean you can act like an _idiot _when… when…"

_He is kicked off the team. _

Hermione is still trying to come up with an insult for Malfoy that doesn't offend Harry when Malfoy returns his own.

"It's none of your business, _mudblood. _It's not like you would understand a _wizarding _game anyway."

An angry blush rises to Hermione's cheeks. It is an unfair comment to make – the fact Hermione is nonchalant to Quidditch has nothing to do with the fact she is muggleborn… Harry was raised by muggles and he loved Quidditch before he had known his father had also played. There are plenty of purebloods who can barely fly straight on a broom – he recalls Neville on their first flying lesson. Yet the way Malfoy says it, as if Hermione is an outsider because she doesn't like one thing, is perhaps more infuriating than what he calls her.

Ron's wand has whipped out of his pocket and is pointed solidly at Malfoy. Malfoy too has reached for his wand but his stance is casual. Presumably, he remembers a very similar incident from last year and the disaster (on Ron's behalf) that it caused. Harry pulls back his arm, not to stop Ron from firing at himself because a new wand has fixed that particular problem, but because this is between the two of them and he does not need his friends defending him on his behalf.

"Are you inflating your ego before the match so you can float when you fall of your broom, Malfoy?"

For Harry knows, despite all pretences, that Malfoy must be nervous for his first match, that his barrage of insults at Harry is a decoy for his own insecurities.

The smirk drops from Malfoy's pale face a fraction.

Not enough to be noticeable but as clear as daylight to someone looking out for it. _Find their weaknesses and exploit it with a smile¸ _rings in Harry's mind. There isn't a smile on his face – he is not that good at crafting his expressions – but the warmth in his chest was close enough to satisfaction.

But Malfoy is a well-experienced player in this game as well.

"Is that how you fly? With an overinflated head given to you by your _parents." _

"Shut up," Harry says, voice cold.

"Or what?" Malfoy jeers. "Are you going to go crying to your _mother_?"

_Your mother was a disgusting woman, who didn't know what was good for herself…_

Harry is angry but it isn't the usual fire which burns bright and fast, but a quiet hatred mixed with a disgust, as if he is not looking at a human being, but a petulant ferret which dares to step in his path. How dare he use his family against him, that high ground that he can claim not by his own ability but the world he happened to be born in? It is a low blow and so very unjust.

_Went and _died _in a car crash. _

_Gave birth to you and _died _the next day. _

The two memories that run through his brain blur and mix until Harry can hardly pick them apart any more.

He says nothing. All his usual snark is gone.

Turning sharply on his heel, he walks away. There is laughter behind him, uncaringly loud, rising above the distant roar in his ears as if he has dipped his head in a fast flowing river.

"Not so brave now, are you Potter!"

The top of his head feels very hot, even though his fingers are icy. His chest burns. It is a deep, thrumming ache that never goes away, only fades and rises like an irregular tide. All around him eyes burn; mocking, accusing… Ducking his gaze down, he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other without stumbling, on breathing without choking. The wand in his pocket is impossibly heavy, so close to his hand, so easily accessible with a million curses on his tongue; a few, he knows, could knock the laughter out of their eyes permanently.

But he does not.

_I am different. I am different. I am different. _

He loves his mother – proud, brave and strong – who died with her head held high in front of the most feared Dark Lord of the century. However Harry cannot help feel the sticky resentment in the back of his throat, for leaving him to walk this cruel path alone, one that echoed the bitter tone in some distant tale.

_She was a witch. She _died_ and left me in a muggle orphanage. _

Harry is in quicksand. The more he struggles to deny it, the faster he sinks, yet even when he conceits to sitting quietly, he is still being pulled under.

Perhaps he is closer to Tom Riddle than he would like to believe.

"Harry?"

It is Hermione. Ron is behind her, ginger hair bright against the dull stone of the corridor.

"What?" Harry asks. He does not look up from the window where he is leaning, looking out across the ground below him. The clouds are low and dark across the sky and there is a slight smug against the sky so that the mountains in the distance fade out of view. Against the slightly lighter grey, a few wispy dark clouds run across the sky with eerie speed.

"_We_ are worried about you," she says. "You don't seem very happy."

Why would he be _happy_?

His insides are warm from the fire that smoulders inside him, not like any anger that Harry has known: low and calm, dark as coal. Usually anger fuels Harry, cutting through his fear, overriding his sensibility. Not this time. This is just uncomfortable.

"I know you're frustrated about Wood's decision."

Harry does not deny this, but at the same time, his anger is not solely about the Quidditch. He looks down at his feet, trying to organise his thoughts, fluttering like leaves on a harsh wind. His mouth is very dry. His words have dried up – seaweed left on a beach where the tide has gone out.

"I'm fine," he says.

Hermione continues unabashed.

"Maybe you should talk about it to someone," Hermione says.

"I'm fine," Harry says, sharply. "Just leave me alone."

He does not wait for a response; he picks up his bag, feeling the weight of it dig into his shoulder, and walks quickly down the corridor towards his next lesson.

Harry knows he is being unreasonably cold. There should be more comfort in his friends, who stood by his side even as he turned them away; his friends, brilliant and funny, who should be his anchor when his feelings are lost. Yet Harry shrinks away from their warmth, Devil's Snare hiding from light.

_Because they do not understand. _

Maybe they do and Harry is being stupid. He has built fortresses around himself to protect him, to punish him, perpetuated by his bitterness. They do understand but it is Harry who does not know how to let them in.

* * *

**Ending on a low this time but it'll be over soon :D. Thank you for reading. Please leave a review!**


	8. 2-4 Condolence

**Well, this is likely the last chapter. **

**Thank you so much to Son of Whitebeard for sticking it out with reviews! **

**Thank you all for sticking with my ramblings. **

* * *

**Condolence**

The first snow comes in November. It starts at night, falls thick and fast during the lessons the next day, so that when they emerge out of Transfigurations after break, the grounds are glowing white. There is a buzz in the air, especially those in the younger years who live further south, for whom snow retains its novelty. Some older students are also far too enthusiastic; a snowball fight erupts on the fresh patch just outside the entrance hall and naturally, the Weasley twin's scarlet hair can be seen flashing through the chaos.

Drawn out to the grounds with the rest of the school, Harry stands in the snow. White flecks swirls across the air. He can see them on his lashes, too settling snugly in the space between his glasses and his face. He wants to join in with the fight but he has left his gloves in his dormitory and his fingers are freezing after patting down the first few snowballs. They are still recovering in his pocket – red and numb. Instead, he resides to laugh with the other bystanders as the centre players pound each other with white fluff, their winter cloaks brushed with white.

George (or perhaps Fred) turns their way, gives a wide grin. He has a ready snowball sitting in his hand.

"Oh no," Ron says. Harry laughs and ducks as George throws. He stumbles in the snow, feels the cold biting into his ankles and spreading to his toes as snow tumbles into his shoes. The snowball sails over his head and hits a first year in the middle of chucking his own snowball in the opposite direction, who gives a yelp and spins around. Ron is laughing as Harry stands. He does not notice the first year's snow ball until it hits him squarely in the nose. Laughter is like music in the air, rising like a tide. Even Hermione, who has an indignant frown on her face cannot suppress the smirk pulling at her lips.

Then past Hermione's face, Harry's eyes trail to another blur of red. He meets Ginny's eyes as she leaves the entrance hall, accidently, and Harry's smile freezes on his face as he looks into their dark depths.

Harry ducks his head. Suddenly he wants to be alone. His hands are cold, his feet are numb and his chest aches. He pushes past the students, away from the school in the general direction of the lake, not yet frozen but cold and dark in winter, thus unpopular at this time of year. If anybody saw him slip away, they do not call him out.

As he gains distance from the school building, the sound of students drops away. The snow is not yet thick and he can feel the grass underneath the white blanket that crunches as he walks.

The lake is a black canvas and flecks of white shimmer as they fall across it in thick sheets but nearer to the edge, where the waves lap across the grey stones at Harry's feet rhythmically, he can see the green moss through the dark liquid. He stands right at the edge, so close that the waves skim his toes. His hands are thrust deep into his pockets and his chin tucked into his winter cloak in an attempt to stave off the biting cold that comes with the chilly wind blowing across the lake. He tilts on to his heels, then tips forward to his toes. Leans against the wind as he closes his eyes.

"You come here too."

His eyes snap open at the voice, which has a familiar ring to it but is not immediately recognisable.

In the wind, her hair floats as a single sheet of burning orange, flaked with white snow that shimmers in the light. Her eyes are brown, like Tom's, but so much brighter, lit with the same fire that coils in her hair.

"Not really," Harry replies. "This is the first time."

Initial impressions aside, Ginny looks rather nervous. Her feet shuffle on the stones and her eyes constantly dart to the left, as if planning escape routes away from Harry.

"I can leave if you want," Harry says.

"No, no… it's alright," Ginny says, softly. Her voice is almost lost in the snow.

She walks towards the lake until she is in line with Harry, looking out across the dark surface and the snowflakes dancing atop the waves. Harry cannot keep her eyes off of her, even as he turns to face the lake too so that they are standing side by side. Her expression is unreadable.

It is cold. It is not snowing heavily but with the snow melting on his shoulders, the chill is starting to permeate into his body, the sensation weighing him down like a physical mass.

"I'm sorry," Ginny says, out of the blue.

"About what?"

They stare at the lake, the snow. More than quiet. All sound is muffled by the air laced with soft snow and nothing moves, other than a few flakes of snow drifting across their vision, hardly distinguishable from the white clouds that blanket the sky.

"For ignoring you." Ginny looks down at her feet. Her lashes are ginger too – the papery white of snowflakes stands out against them as she blinks.

Harry doesn't know what to say. He had tried to initiate conversation once, failed, and then never really put his heart into further attempts, having deduced that Ginny really didn't want to talk.

_There were other reasons to, although Harry keeps the thought buried. _

"It's alright," Harry says.

"I stole back the Diary. I put you and Ron in danger."

Ginny does not look at Harry as he says this, eyes fixed on her shoes. They look quite old – rough around the edges, with the heel worn down.

"He said you would be expelled didn't he?" Harry says. _(Told them to keep it a secret because otherwise they would be in trouble. Yes, Harry knew his games.) _"So it wasn't your fault. You were being manipulated. You were scared…"

"But that's not… it's not," Ginny looks up and takes a deep breath. "I _was _scared. But I wasn't scared of being expelled. Well, I was but… The truth is… _I was scared of you_. I like- liked you," Ginny presses her lips together and looks straight at Harry, as if daring him to laugh at her. Harry does not find this remotely funny. Almost imperceptibly, Ginny's shoulders relax.

"Nobody took it seriously, except Tom. He listened to me and he was always so patient. I felt special when he spoke to me. I felt as if he really cared… When I started suspecting he was involved with the attacks, he changed. It was scary… really scary… but… but… it was lonely too," Ginny's pace quickens as her words tumble out, one after another. "He never said it explicitly but I could tell he just wasn't interested in my worries anymore… I suppose he wasn't interested from the start… I thought I'd done something wrong at first – I tried to reach out for him. I begged him for help. When I realised he wouldn't… I wasn't…"

Ginny stutters to a halt, biting back tears. They gather in her eyes, mixed with the snow that has melted on her cheeks.

"You don't have to do this!" Harry blurts. "I'm sorry…"

"I want to say this Harry," Ginny retorts sharply. She wipes her tears on her sleeve with a jerky motion. "I thought getting rid of the Diary would solve all of my problems; that I would wake up and be able to make lots of friends and Tom would be out of my life. Life doesn't work like that, does it?"

There is bitterness in her voice.

"When I saw Hermione with the Diary… I was pretty sure by then that Tom was involved with the attacks but I didn't let Hermione hand it in because I was so scared of _you _finding out what I'd said to Tom… Oh I was so _selfish." _Ginny kicks a loose stone and it goes flying into the lake, a heavy plonk following it as it disappears beneath the surface in a ring of new ripples.

"After the Chamber… the more I thought about it, the more it seemed obvious that you'd talked to Tom lots and… I was _scared. _Again. I was scared of _you _thinking I was silly and pushing me aside like Tom had… even after you'd saved my life! I spent a long time agonising over it. I thought… I thought I didn't deserve to be in Gryffindor." Her voice drops to a whisper at the last line – cracked, hoarse and agonising.

Harry doesn't know how to respond.

Ginny takes in a deep breath, exhales slowly. She looks at him. Her eyes are rimmed red but the tears are gone, replaced by a brows set in a firm line. While her skin is pale from the cold, there is colour across her cheeks – a fierce red that accentuates her soft features. The snow swirls around her.

"But you know what? It _wasn't_ my fault. Tom was horrible and knew exactly what to say to make me feel worthless. I decided I wasn't going to give into that."

There is silence.

Harry swallows. He is rather taken aback by Ginny's intensity. At the same time, he feels the heat of admiration flood through him, warming his frigid fingers. It is nothing like the wonder that Tom had once inspired or even the quiet respect that Dumbledore commanded – it makes Harry feel stronger rather than smaller, more comfortable to be stood there sharing this moment.

"That's… amazing," Harry says. There has to be better words but he doesn't even look for them. There is no need. Some things don't need well-crafted words to get them across.

Ginny looks back to the waves the lap at their feet, obviously embarrassed. She pulls at the silver fastenings on her cloak, twisting them absentmindedly underneath her fingers. However there is a smile on her face too, small but reaching her eyes.

"Well, that was about two months ago. Its… erm… work in progress."

_But that's alright. _

_The best things take a lifetime. _

He returns to the castle, wet from the snow that has melted on his hair. The cold has found its way into his cloak too. Harry doesn't mind the cold – he almost enjoys the deep numbness it gives him – but his body betrays his discomfort. He is shivering, his breathing is coarse. Professor McGonagall gives him a stern glare as he enters the hall, among the last students coming in from break.

"Getting a cold is no excuse for being late to lessons, Potter," she says. Her tone is as sharp as always, but Harry thinks that there is concern there too.

"I'm not late, am I?" he asks.

He doesn't think he has been by the lake that long, but he could be wrong; recently he has become akin to loosing track of time.

"You have five minutes," Professor McGonagall replies coolly.

"Right," Harry mutters. Five minutes is not enough time to return to the dorms, let alone wipe his wet hair. He adjusts the strap of the bag digging into his shoulder and makes for the stairs.

"Potter," Professor McGonagall says.

Harry turns. Professor McGonagall flicks her wand and suddenly a rush of warmth blows over him. His hair no longer drips onto his glasses.

"Thanks," he says.

"Run along, Potter," Professor McGonagall says sternly.

It is charms next. He is not late, but just. Hermione gives him an inquisitive, if a little disappointed stare, before turning back to the book in her hand. Ron seems to have no particular opinion of Harry's disappearance at break, just pulls up a chair next to him, by the window. Harry likes Ron's obliviousness (feigned or not) in times like these. It let him be normal, for a moment at least.

His mind is as turbulent as the snow outside. The conversation with Ginny rings in his ears, bringing a lightness to his limbs, but with it the dark knot in his insides is back, pulling him down with even more intensity than before.

_Don't let him get to you. _

_You're not worthless. _

"_Yet so… weak." _

"It's Tuesday. Did Flitwick set homework last week? I hope not. Blimey, I haven't done anything for today!" Ron mutters. He does not ask anything of Harry. He is talking to himself. That too, Harry finds comfort it.

"If you _did your homework on the day it was set _you wouldn't be in this situation!" Hermione hisses as Professor Flitwick starts the register.

"Who has time to do homework on the day it's set?"

"Everyone, if they didn't play chess in the evenings with Seamus!"

A smile comes to Harry's lips.

He imagines his thoughts as a whirlwind of snow, each word a single clump that churns in the turbulence. He bunches them up into his hands, watches them without touching them, then lets them go. They do no disappear, but when he is not grabbing at them desperately, they fade into the white canvas of clouds.

"Was it the one about practicing sticking charms? I don't think it was an official homework," Harry says. "I haven't done it either."

Hermione huffs.

"It's important to practice, even if it isn't _checked_!" She then opens her textbook with a sharp but silent movement and shoves her nose into it. Ron gives Harry a look. Even though not a single word is spoken, a _blimey _crosses the air between them. He is not annoyed or spiteful; a long time ago he might have been, but Hermione's nagging and Ron's laidback attitude to life is integral to their relationship. Ron treasures them.

Harry swallows. Sometimes, they don't need words to communicate. The meaning is already there, written into their connections through months of experience. It's obvious now that he thinks of it… but for months he had forgotten, too trapped in his own worries to connect to those around him.

Perhaps, he thinks, he didn't need a Diary to fight the loneliness inside him.

Evenings are always difficult. There is too much time and too little to fill them. Although… that is a lie too; there is plenty to do, from homework to boardgames, or just chatting and laughing as groups of Gryffindors tended to do in the common room, but Harry finds emptiness in all of them. So he had made it a habit to leave for bed early, then stare at the ceiling or curl into a ball, as if hiding could shield him from his own thoughts.

Today, like any other day, he walks up to the dormitory early. There is Quidditch practice today but Harry has not gone for several weeks now and the emptiness fills its place. It is better when they have homework due in the next day, because then there is a sense of urgency to drive him forward. Not today. It is empty. The minutes are long.

His broom lies tucked under his bed, waiting for him patiently.

For a few moments he stares at it, contemplating. If he goes down now, he could still play past sundown – the wind in his hair and the feet of the ground. He could fly. Harry misses that sensation of true freedom. He does not consciously make the decision; his hand moves on its own accord, picking up the broom by the middle. The wood is smooth under his fingers, soft and inviting, his hand fitting around it as if it belonged there.

In the common room, it is warm, especially in the armchairs close to the fire which burns low in the neatly laid out coal. Anywhere else, the floor are cold, but here the tightly woven rugs in numerous shades of red radiate a mellow warmth that can be felt even through socks and shoes. The air hums with conversation – each voice indiscernible but melding into one melody that rises and falls with time.

A few stares find their way to him and Harry shrinks back, suddenly nervous. Ron spots him, blue eyes taking in his Quidditch robes, the Nimbus in his hand.

"Harry?" Ron says. Then his expression melts into a grin. "Fred and Gorge have just left so you can catch up if you run."

Although the sun is still out, the air is frigid, forcing its way into their lungs and gripping their lungs with its icy touch. With the snow on the ground, their feet also feel the chill, even through thick shoes. Thankfully there is little wind and though the clouds are low, there is an empty patch where the sun is setting and the pitch is dazzled by the low rays which paint the sky in an array of colours – deep red near the bottom, a fiery purple higher up, melting into the sky with a purple tinged grey.

Wood is surprised to see him but evidently happy.

"Take it easy," he says.

Harry mounts the broom.

"Three. Two. One. Go!"

Kicks off.

Rises up into the sky.

There is nothing quite like flying. He soars through the sky, rising higher and faster than the others, feeling the wind against his ears, also pushing his glasses against his face. The ground below becomes quickly small and replacing the expanse of green is the Hogwarts grounds – spread out below him like a picture post-card. Far ahead, the horizon fades to a dusty line of mountains, to his left, the castle rises out of the stone as if it had grown there.

The broom under his fingers feels almost alive as it responds to his grip, until the individual motions are lost to him and all he is simply flying however he wishes. At an appropriate height, he turns in the air and looks down. The falling sensation is still there, tickling the back of his mind. Instead of trying to ignore it, he stares at it deeply, marvelling it like a precious object. He tucks it into his chest with the caress of a loving parent: _sleep now, and I'll come back later. _

For now, he does not want to remember the fall. He just wants to fly.

The evenings are still difficult. Harry stares at the ceiling, tired but unable to close his eyes. The heaviness is back, possibly even worse tonight after the high he had experienced earlier, pressing down on his chest like a clamp. Breathing coarse, mind numb.

Time.

Everything takes time; time to let the particulates settle, the temperature to stabilise, for plans simmer and sit. There is a long path from resolution to fruition, realisation as a thought to realisation of an idea and no shortcuts without peril. That's alright, he thinks. There is plenty of time. He is patient and familiar with the slow rolling of silent clocks, the grinding hours that trickle away as slow as treacle…

_It was nothing, after all, compared to fifty years. _

_They stand side by side, in a corridor that is parallel to the wall of the castle that faces the lake. The sky is grey and tumbling downwards in huge sheets that move slowly through the air, melting into one another before slowly splitting off; a giant show of floating curtains that drift in the breeze._ _The snow has coated the grounds in a thick blanket of white, punctuated with the dark outline of trees or jutting rocks and the blue-black smudges across the surface of the frozen lake. Other than the snow, the landscape is still. No people are out, no animals are present: just the air, alive with dancing flakes. _

_Although warmer than outside, the air inside the castle is frigid. The stone windowsill too, half covered in snow, has a coldness to it that sinks deep into Harry's hands as he clutches it. Despite the fact it is stealing his warmth, Harry stays close to it, as only by leaning against the wall with his body thrown forward can he truly appreciate the scenery outside. _

_He envies Tom's height. The taller boy doesn't need to lean against the window to get a good view. He places one hand lightly on the stone in front of him anyway, and the coldness does not seem to touch his pale fingers. _

_The castle is quiet. It is the muffling effect of the snow but also the lack of people too; no higher tones of laughter from the corridor below, no clatter of footsteps or the occasional bang of a misplaced spell; just he creek of the moving stairs carrying no one. This is the Christmas holidays – most students are at home. _

"_Were you always alone over the holidays?" Harry asks. _

_He looks away from the snow outside and turns to Tom. From this angle, the line of his jaw is prominent. His eyes are fixed ahead and Harry sees that they are not just dark – they flicker at brown when the light hits them at just the right angle. _

"_No," Tom says. "But mostly." _

"_Were you lonely?" _

"_No."_

_It is the expected answer. Tom seems to dislike showing his own emotions - positive or negative - but sometimes, Harry can tell if there is some feeling lurking behind Tom's words. Not this time. Tom could have been saying that he did not fancy tea, with the neutrality of his tone. _

"_I would be, if there wasn't anyone else here," Harry says with a shrug. "But there's Ron, and Hermione stayed last year."_

"_If there was nobody here, would you go back?" Tom asks. For a second, Harry is confused. Back? Back where? He has no home except Hogwarts. Then realisation strikes him and he shivers unexpectedly. _

"_To the Dursleys? Never." _

_Harry looks back out of the window to the shades of grey outside – Hagrid's hut is below to the left, it's chimney hazy with smoke that is quickly lost to the dancing snow. He imagines the chimney without smoke, the windows quiet. It would be lonely, certainly, but still, he would rather stay at a silent Hogwarts, among the cold mountains of Scotland, then go anywhere near Privet Drive. _

"_You don't have to go back to them," Tom says. _

_The statement takes Harry aback and he blinks several times. It had never been an option, even if it had entered his dreams; where would he go? It wasn't like he had another place to stay. _

"_You're the Boy Who Lived. Someone would be delighted to let you stay over, if they knew what despicable relatives you had," Tom continues with a sly smile. There is something in his tone of voice which implies experience. _

"_Is that what you did, stay over at a friend's house?"_

_Tom laughs. _

"_Not quite. After my Special Award for Services to the School, the Headmaster made special arrangements," Tom says. "I spent four weeks on a Ministry internship, at Hogwarts." There is pride in his voice and an elated glee in his eyes that make them shine. _

_Harry's stomach swoops. He almost doesn't dare to hope that he could do the same; to stay in this enchanted castle and never see his relatives again. _

"_Could I…" His mouth is so dry he can barely get the words out. Tom eyes are narrowed slightly as they look at him. They are not malicious, more calculative. _

"_If you exposed the culprit to the recent attacks, perhaps… But you would have to be clever about it. You couldn't tell the professors that you were planning this, or they would take the chance away from you… Of course they're just trying to protect you but it wouldn't help your case…"_

_Harry latches onto those words like a desperate child holding a mothers hand. _

"_Is that why you looked for the Heir of Slytherin?"_

_Tom gives an elusive smile. _

"_Well, I have to admit, my curiosity got the better of me. The outcome was favourable though."_

_Harry listens to Tom, adores Tom, because Tom always has all the answers. Oh he has doubts, but he has doubts about everything, and they are lost in the admiration that he can barely conceal in their interactions. To Harry, Tom is a blessing fallen out of the sky. _

Until he woke up, of course.

* * *

**Yep. Cliffhanger? Maybe. Or unsatisfying ending. Sorry. **

**Although life is full of unsatisfying endings and that's okay because it means you can move onto the next fanfiction:)**


End file.
